


The Sparrow King

by Lykotheia



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 107,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykotheia/pseuds/Lykotheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the mysterious disappearance of archaeologist Kenneth Grey, his son Samuel is still using his notes and a rapidly decreasing pool of scholarly grants to seek out clues to his father’s whereabouts. Just as his last attempt appears to fall through, an ancient relic transports him to Erythros, another world where soldiers ride dragons, nobles are mages, and their enigmatic king Kougaiji believes Samuel to be a priest. Lured in because he has nowhere else to go, Samuel decides to stay when he discovers that, curiously, everyone seems to know who his father was. When Kougaiji requests his aid against a longtime enemy in a battle that might require him to forfeit his life, Samuel has to weigh the risk and value of saving a nation that no one in his world knows of against the potential loss of his quest for his father. Things become increasingly complicated as Samuel is embroiled not only in the political, but the personal elements of Erythros’ royal house, rendering his debt to his father and his host-nation even on either end of the scale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about a year ago, so the style is a little dated for me. Please be kind when you read, as it was a challenge/request fic, and I am not at all knowledgeable about high fantasy as a literary genre. I had to do a bit of research (in which I learned that "orcs" are not baby ogres...), but generally it's not my cuppa. 
> 
> P.S. For a giggle, read some of the "fantasy"-esque names of the OCs backwards.

Like all good stories, this one begins _in medias res_ , or perhaps, more accurately, _fine rerum_ , at the end of things. Even though it’s not a fairy-tale, that’s how I’ll write it, or you’d never believe me. It’s hard enough to take the dynamics of this plot line seriously as it is, and the characters—well, you’ll see. You might wonder why I took so long to get around to it, writing everything out, and waited until old age, when my hands shake so badly I can hardly type. I would answer you that I wanted to make sure I got everything right, every last detail. I used to think time worked in another fashion, chipping at memory and blurring distinct recollections until once picture-perfect images turned into impressionist work in the mind. It actually does just the opposite. I’ve found, with age, the longer I sit and reflect, the more I work toward remembering a person, the clearer they become. I’m told it’s because the elderly have little left to them but memory, and fewer things to do, so they sit quietly and think on the past. I don’t know if that’s the key, though I do enough of it, sickeningly mellow as I’ve become, and it helps. I’ve found that after a while, remembrance becomes stronger and the line between living and dead blurs instead, making me feel that the others are not really so distant, and maybe I’ll see them again, in a little while.   
Until then, I’ve taken it upon myself to write an account of what came to pass, their memoirs and mine. Even if it is true that great men need no histories, I offer one here, devoid of embellishments but rife with bias. I write it about him, but make no mistake; this work is for me, to bring them back, to go back, now that I am at leisure to do so. It would have been a mistake to get tangled up in nostalgia during my youth; yearning tears a person down, empties his life of meaning, and I spent decades perfecting my refusal of it. Now, at the end of my time, it’s finally safe to risk wanting it, to risk missing someone. After all, that is what old men do. 

\-----------------

My father’s notes swam in front of my eyes the way they had for three years, his neat, curling hand twisting into incomprehensible whorls and threatening to wind right off of the page. I could read the words, but they made little sense, all strung together. It was just like him to leave such a baffling trail, rather than giving me precise coordinates. Then again, the notebook was for his private use, having never been intended for me, or as an instruction manual for anyone else’s eyes. I had only ended up with it at age twenty after his disappearance, when the state had given up its search and decided that the funds it had expended to seek out Dr. Kenneth Grey were sufficient, equal to or greater than the value of his life. I wasn’t stupid enough to think his notes were any sort of code that might lead me to him, find where he had hidden himself, as if it had been his decision to vanish into thin air. But I kept them, guessed at them, for years after, because it seemed it was the next project he intended, what he would have been doing if he were here. It was important to him. Therefore it was important to me. But all my studying as a linguist wasn’t enough to crack the cryptogram of ambiguities laid out on yellowing pages. 

It looked less like an archaeologist’s notebook than a private journal, riddled with sketches, hand-drawn maps, and personal asides, some of which I understood, others not. I had looked through it a thousand times, and it only became increasingly baffling. While it was clear I was to dig a particular location ( _where_ , exactly, was half the mystery), I didn’t know what I was searching for. His specialty had always been early Native American settlements, and we had a house full of cracked pottery from across the country, from Mohawk to Semipole and Walpapi to Cherokee. He’d done his dissertation on the Walpapi of Oregon and their snake dance, and I’d heard stories of digs before I could walk. The exotic had always held some sort of fascination for him, and the farther removed it was from our Western reality, the closer he felt to it. 

But he’d always known what he was after, which was why this untitled, legendless sketch of a map made so little sense. It was like reading something from a dream; sometimes that’s where I thought his ideas came from. This was my third try to pin down its location, and funds were running low; people were starting to ask questions, and I realized I had better come up with a better excuse than digging for remains of whatever tribe lived nearest. They knew I wasn’t an archaeologist, and I knew my linguistic expertise was focused on Europe, not the Americas. The Indians hadn’t even used a writing system, which made it that much more difficult to explain to my associates at the university just what the hell I was doing playing in the muck of the Shenandoah Valley.

I stared at it again, the map, thinking by the way it was drawn, the landmarks, both natural and not, that this must be roughly the location. Why it would not have been labeled was beyond me—my father had never been an overly private man, or competitive enough to believe a fellow scholar might snatch up his notes. I’d scoured maps, old and new, on paper and the computer screen, physical and aerial, trying to find just the place. This is what I came up with, using the location of a run down mid-nineteenth century manor as my strongest hint. This had to be it; I couldn’t afford for it not to be. If it was, how would I know it? I didn’t even know what I was looking _for_ , though my father had never been much for speculation. He only traveled with certainty, using a mix of historical research and an eerie sixth sense to pinpoint the best sites. He called himself a prospector, and bemoaned society’s lack of appreciation for his artifact-gold, a piece of another world that was so much more valuable than his own. 

“Mr. Grey?” There was almost a whisper at the edge of the tent. 

I made a habit in those days of ignoring anyone who didn’t knock first, and since it was virtually impossible to tap canvas, most of my subordinates went unheard on digs. Grant Paige was particularly insistent, a freshman intern from some small-scale university in the boonies of Virginia that I’d never even heard of, but taken on because we were short-handed. 

“Mr. Grey,” he began again, not at all deterred by my practiced glare. “There’s a lady wants to see you, from another university. She’s raising hell about our dig site.”

“Tell her to piss off.” Oddly, I wasn’t having a bad day. 

“I did.” Grant bobbed his head as he spoke. “And I even tried to show her out of the site, but she tromped right through it, Sir.” He swallowed hard and shuffled, making me feel like an English schoolmaster. “And she said she’s givin’ you five minutes.”

“ _She’s_ giving _me_?” I balked. “For what?”

“To come talk to her, I guess. Wants you to call off the dig, something about a battlefield.” 

I snorted and rose, leaving my papers beneath brass weights to keep them from blowing away if any breeze chanced beneath the tent flaps. Ducking out into blinding sunlight—that’s how it always is, in Virginia—I spotted her right away, the only one present bold enough to wear heels at a dig site. Some archaeologist; she’d be out of commission for weeks if she slid down one of our hills in those. 

“You.” I waved her over and plucked a cigarette from my shirt, changing my position so that she would have to face the west and deal with the glare. I saw her raise a hand to shield her eyes and then pluck a pair of shades out of her purse. She took her time side-stepping stones, but didn’t lose her footing despite the rigid line of her back. “What.” I asked. “Do you want.”  
“I see you’re short on time,” The woman said drily, appearing, up close, much younger, maybe no older than myself. She had a thick notebook in hand and several pens clipped to the end of it; balanced atop the blank pages were a few official-looking documents marred by red ink stamps and dates. She handed one over to me.

“It’s a formal, _legal_ request that you cease your operations here,” she bit out, and I realized her tense posture wasn’t from her shoes, but the result of withheld anger. 

“Why the hell?” I glanced it over—signed by the governor to boot!—and shook my head, as if I had some say in this. 

“Well, _Schliemann_ , let me fill you in.” She growled at me, “You just plowed through about three layers of _my_ site.”

“I checked with the department--”

“You didn’t check closely enough,” she snapped, “You’ve absolutely destroyed the west end of the battlefield. I can’t even work with it now.”

“Battlefield?” As far as I knew, nothing of massive importance had ever occurred here. I was digging, personally funded, based on my father’s enigmatic notes. She would laugh in my face if I tried to explain it, and hence the reason I hired mostly interns, who worked for free and didn’t ask impertinent questions. There was, for this, no historical basis. 

She huffed indignantly, pushing dark hair up from her face. “Yes—what are you doing, digging up a Shawnee site?” Confusion flickered across her face, and for a moment her voice almost softened, perhaps assuming I was up to something official or by chance just a really passionate Native American archaeologist. That shortly took a backseat to her renewed anger.   
“Don’t you know this is where Cedar Creek occurred?” 

I hadn’t—and wasn’t exactly sure which war that pertained to, either. I would have guessed the War of Independence, until she started up on something about Sheridan, and I pinned it to the Civil War. 

“You have to let my men in first; our layer is obviously farther up.”

_Our layer_? What kind of archaeologist was _she_? I asked her as much, and she just rolled her eyes. 

“I’m an historian.” _Figures_. “I’m just leading the dig, since it’s my dissertation at stake here. And you’re screwing it up—pull off your set-up, or I’ll have the police do it for you.”

“I’m calling my lawyer about this,” I told her, backing down a bit. I wasn’t making any promises without knowing her case was watertight. Surely it couldn’t be, not here, in the middle of Nowhere, Shenandoah. 

“You do that. But until you do, _stop digging_. You’re wrecking the field.” 

Again, no promises, and I tipped an invisible hat at her mockingly before returning to the tent to rub my forehead and try to ease her sharp tone from my ears. Grant came trailing behind me, an unshakeable second shadow. 

“Is she for real? Are we going to haveta stop the dig? I don’t know why—what’re they gonna find that we won’t?”

“We went too deep.” Not deep enough, according to the notes. That part had been very specific, especially for an estimate. As far as I know, my father had never dug here before in his life.

“Too deep! But we ain’t found anything yet,” he protested. “Didn’t hit anything goin’ down either, except a few old round bullets and belt buckles.”

I cringed to think of the resting places we might have torn through, remembering one of the workers waving around a metal plate labeled CSA in a broad font. I’d recorded it and sent him to the nearest museum, where they probably had twenty plus of the same thing. I didn’t want it in my camp, even if I wasn’t superstitious. 

“Hold off on the digging—tell the others—but don’t pack up yet. I’ve got to make a call.”

\------------------

As it turned out, I made several, and so did my lawyer, checking out her case and then probing for loopholes. It was unassailable, even without the governor’s signature; that had been only an added insult. And we hadn’t found anything worthwhile to defend our place. 

I began to bribe myself, walking to the edge of a steep incline and peering down at the workers below, covered in and surrounded by dirt, nothing of worth or interest peeking up from beneath. Maybe, I thought, I’d misidentified the location. I was willing to go through another few months of scouting to find a more likely option if it meant eventually attaining my goal, whatever it was. But to leave with only a few feet undug, not knowing, would be impossible. It was thirty-five feet below, the notes said, give or take a few. That was almost a three-story building. How he came to know exactly how many was beyond me, but my father knew how to measure strata and had loads of experience—most of my interns knew more than me. I was, as I said, a linguist. 

“How far?” I called down, unable to estimate by glancing. They had cleared several areas, again based loosely on the sketch, and all were hollowed out to a more or less level depth. One man tilted his sun hat and peered up, squinting at me, and I realized I stood against the setting sun. 

“Thirty, all across!” He called back, and I felt my stomach knot. 

“Well, enough.” 

He put a hand to his ear and then moved to the long ladder, and I shouted, “Enough!”

“Enough?”

I nodded broadly so that he might see despite the height and glare of the sun, raking a hand through my hair. Disappointment weighed heavily on me, but I knew I was legally bound; I couldn’t dig further, even though it seemed a pity not to, having broken through any strata that might have pertained to the woman’s—Shannon, my lawyer had said—work. 

I wanted to tell my father I was worried, but I hadn’t been able to begin thinking of him as dead, even though he’d been listed as such in the papers, marked off, cold-case, by the police. Not knowing was worse; I wanted to talk to him, but I didn’t know where to direct my thoughts. Did I tilt my head up or down—was he in Heaven, or buried somewhere beneath the earth? Was he near a phone, maybe, still among us? The thought troubled me, knowing that the only reason for which he might be alive and estranged would be a horrid one, and I would rather him at peace, or at nothing. These thoughts clouded my head and heart, making it hard to breathe even as the heat and humidity of the day eased off, evaporating into evening. 

Like most of those left behind without closure, uncertain orphans, I twitched with guilt. Wouldn’t a truly loyal son continue the search, forever and ever, until he knew the whole of it? I’d played that role for a year, and it drained me of everything I had. Hope would rise and fall, choke me and then knot in my stomach and devour my energy like a parasite. The detectives had gone from supportive and empathetic to pitying after the first three months, and the group at my missing father’s disposal became increasingly small until they delivered their condolences and a card that made “I give up” sound pretty. 

I spent another six months on it myself, despite their advice, and was finally forced to cease when the very officer who had once directed the search told me it was done, and my interference was no longer appreciated. He said “move on,” but what he meant was, “forget.” I couldn’t, so I kept him alive artificially, continuing his work and forgoing my own. Whatever it was had been important; he’d been locked in his study and unusually enthused for days before his death. The police had been unable to connect that to his disappearance, but I planned, at the very least, to connect it to his memory. Whatever I found, wherever it was, would be his legacy. A posthumous, or at least post-presence, excavation would be extraordinary. As I said, my father had always liked exotic things. 

\---------------------------

Lying on a cot under the wide tent, near the rickety legs of a fold-up table and chairs that served as my desk and creaked in the wind, I tried to sleep. 

Noises from camp interrupted my thoughts, men moving the last of the equipment or washing up, popping the tops of beer cans and grumbling about the loss of their jobs. I thought briefly about bribing a few to go down and dig the last five feet anyways; we could do it at night, despite the large swath of land, and be gone by morning. Surely Shannon hadn’t already measured our depth? The idea fell apart quickly when I realized I didn’t have enough to make it worth their while; a man could lose his license for that, and interning college students wouldn’t risk their GPA, never mind their stainless legal records. 

I fell into a frustrated sleep, too deep to be constructive, and riddled with dreams. I’ve always dreamed in great detail, ever since youth, and my father used to tell me it was because I read so much, that that kept the mind active. His wild fairy tales before bed didn’t help much; at one point in high school I began lucid dreaming and went on an insomniac streak that put Freddy Kruger films to shame; it had become difficult to distinguish between awake and asleep. The content of my dreams was…strange. After I grew up, it became difficult to attribute them to my father’s inventive mind, but even then they might not have been quite so unsettling if they hadn’t seemed so pre-conceived. For one, characters re-appeared, people I had never seen. Everyone dreams about that, faces and names and sometimes even scents that have nothing to do with their day-to-day reality but masquerade as commonplace while they sleep. But how many see them night after night, following what I could only describe as a plot-like structure, rather than behaving in normal, dream-like ways and gradually dissolving into the background? 

I grew out of it, for the most part, and the strange story-lines about princes and dragons and writhing ivory serpents were replaced by paper deadlines, angry managers, and foreclosure notices, the healthy things normal adults dream about. But on occasion, especially after my father’s disappearance, they would come back. Sometimes they were tame enough, and I would be merely passing through hallways, familiar but not, and men would nod to me the way you would expect them to nod to a king or maybe the president, respectfully and with a little trepidation. But although I knew them to be returning cameos, I never fully remembered them when I woke up. It was like grasping at smoke, and by the time my consciousness had reassembled completely, it was gone, only a loose feeling in the back of my head, an empty bowl. That night I dreamed again with a sense of urgency, not unusual given my circumstances. There was a pacing figure and a great deal of scarlet, and then that scene passed, as if a page in a book had been turned, to another, more cryptic and more acceptable. It was my father. 

He was dressed all in white, cotton pants, a shirt that made me think of Cyrano, and his hair was long, draped down his back. He was reading, bent over a desk and inspecting yellowed paper, crackling about the edges and covered in chicken scratch I didn’t recognize. It was the same color as his worn notebook, but flat, a single scroll, not the sort of work he usually did. The edges glistened beautifully, and I saw that they were gilded, heavy enough so that they would lie flat without curling. I reached out to touch him, and he turned, pulling away, but holding out his hand, proffering the tattered piece of paper. 

_I want you to have this, Samuel._

I reached for it, closing my fingers about the cool metal edges, but when I opened them again, my father was gone, and I held only a clod of dirt. 

Startled awake by a clap of thunder, I took a moment to collect myself and remember where I was. Canvas walls, stagnant meadow air, dust on the floor and on my sheets. The space smelled like rain, and every so often lightning would dimly illuminate the makeshift room. Someplace outside of Middletown Virginia, marked on an untitled map in my father’s notes. 

Sleep after that was impossible, though my body begged for it, and I strode out through the empty site, stepping quietly passed other tents and walking with the blooming breeze at my back, tugging my shirt tails. I wasn’t contemplating the dream’s significance—I’d had enough of that. Instead I thought of my father’s work, his legacy of research and notes, shelves and shelves of notes, and not a clue to his final project in any of them. Only the map, crude and ineffective and something he might have scoffed at, coming from another scholar. How did he expect me to finish it for him if I didn’t know where _it_ was? The thought that maybe he hadn’t expected that at all was batted quickly away. I’d inherited his purpose, and hoped, with it, for some sense of closure, as if the base of the dig would provide a reason for his disappearance. I couldn’t imagine what might, other than a police report.

The widest and deepest of the holes suddenly loomed before me, gloomy and looking like a pit to Tartarus, all shadow and no substance. As though the base had fallen out. We had spent months peeling earth back to make it, and soon everything would be filled back in within a few days’ time, all the crumbling layers of history and pre-history muddled together. All this work, and for what? 

Leaning at the edge near an angled ladder, I peered forward, trying to catch the moonlight against the walls where serrated roots poked out amidst chunks of layered rock. It came out only in flashes behind broiling storm clouds, and even then I could see only a few feet in, and then nothing but night. I was thinking of how long a fall would take, and whether it would break a bone or everything, when the crunching of boots on gravel made me look up. A flashlight, bobbing in the distant dark, scanned the area. I wondered if it was one of Shannon’s workers, come to watch over their site. It was doubtful, but suddenly not wanting to be seen, I hooked a leg over the ladder and eased my way down, sliding a bit by gripping the edges when the steps began to creak. 

The sound of footsteps overhead disappeared quickly as I lowered myself into the inky dark. The temperature gradually dropped a degree or two, cooled by the earth, and the chirruping of cicadas quieted. Eventually I was unable to see anything and paused, unsure of how far down I’d gone. Looking up at the sky, I could make out only an occasional star and the outline of branches against the dim sky. It seemed to take forever, going down that way, and when my foot scraped earth, I tapped it twice to make sure before alighting and fumbling about in the dark for one of many flashlights I knew would be down there. It was a sharp crack of lightning that illuminated the space briefly enough for me to find it; thunder followed quickly, and the ladder rattled.

I had never been amidst an excavation at night, and the sudden shine from the glass-covered bulb did little to light such a vast space, sufficing only to halo me in a dim glow. I touched the earthen wall and traced a line of stone with the beam, careful not to tilt it too high up, though I doubted it would be seen unless someone were to look directly down. 

It was pleasant, in an eerie sort of way, more silent than the open plains because everything was muffled below ground. I had a brief thought of what Odysseus must have seen in his descent and then turned away from the sharp angles of the walls, striding toward what I perceived to be the center. I held the arch of the light out in front of me to avoid stumbling on any equipment that might have been left behind; the men had been angry, and were not inclined to pick up after themselves. I stalled after a few paces when I saw a glint in the dirt. It was very small, but my eye had been trained to spot sherds from yards away. Insofar as I knew, none of the local Native tribes ever used anything that glistened to make pottery; it looked like obsidian in the dark, or onyx. Holding the light out to catch the gleam again, I ran my hand over the place where it was lodged and tried to scoop it up, but only chalky dust trickled out of my fingers. Plucking at the earth again, searching for the cold smoothness of the stone, I prized a clod apart, seeing the glimmer but not the source of its reflection. It almost looked as if the ground were glittering, and I could only dig a small ways into hard packed dirt with my bare fingers. 

Quickly searching my pockets, I drew out the case I used for my glasses, placing it squarely over the shine, and turned on my heel for a spade, tracing the footprints I’d left to find the wall and then, less cautiously, striding back with my hands full. This all took longer than it should have; I was shaking, and I couldn’t be sure of why. The air felt charged because of the storm, and if I weren’t quick about it, the clouds would open and everything would be lost to mud. This was the last night I could do it, and there was something there.

So I dug in the lamplight where I’d placed the case, expecting the tip of the shovel to ring out when it hit the stone, careless of what it was, but it didn’t make a sound. I felt nothing but the give of the parting soil and the hiss it made as it fell into neat little piles beside me. Every few shovelfuls, I would bent and run my hands through the dirt, waving the now muddied flashlight over the ground and seeing the teasing sparkle of mineral. I began to think it was a trick of the flashlight, but another lightning strike illuminated the earthen cell, and I saw the ground glint again. 

The hole deepened, widened, and I felt a pull of exhaustion that sleep wouldn’t remedy, the curse of a practiced insomniac. This would only make it worse, but I was driven. If there was something here, anything at all, it might be reason enough to prolong the dig, or at least stall the filling in of the site. 

Soon my hands were scraping sides of a hole in search of the artifact, and I wondered if they were only miniscule chips, buried in the earth, some kind of reflective grain that my father would have identified at once, the archaeological equivalent of fool’s gold. But it seemed to be getting brighter, and nowhere else was the ground sparkling. I felt sweat seep onto my shirt, making it cling to the small of my back and the undersides of my arms, chilly in the cooling air. Blisters formed in the cup between my index finger and thumb, on the heel of my palm, and I switched hands and positions, ignoring the twinge. Soon I was standing in the hollow, having to climb up a few feet to grasp the flashlight and sweep it over the concave opening in speculation, frustrated at the mysterious reflection. It seemed…brighter. 

Three feet in, it struck me that whatever it was could not possibly be shining through layers of dirt—the light would need to penetrate it. And whatever it was, it wasn’t in the loam, or my hands would glisten too. With another few piles of soil heaved overhead, I realized that it wasn’t reflecting light, it was _emanating_ it. The thing glowed. 

“Shit.” I considered leaving it, burying it, and then a loud ringing jarred me as the spade came to a rough halt, sending reverberations up and along my leg. It had struck. 

Brushing off the dirt, I held my flashlight up to illuminate the hollow within the base of the initial dig site. I could hardly see over the edge, and estimated I was at least five feet deep. I had to have been digging for over an hour by then, to judge by the rasp of my breath and the damp rag that remained of my shirt.

When I made the torch beam arc across the dirt, it flickered and went out; I hit the side with the heel of my hand and wriggled the battery latch to no avail. We changed the batteries every week. It was a bloody safety hazard, and it had to go out, now? I fiddled with the switch a little longer, completely blind and unable even to see my own fingers without holding them up against the night sky.

And then suddenly it didn’t matter; bending, I found the slivers glowing again, emitting their own light and peering up through the dust and dirt. Suddenly I knew what it was, and I knew that I would recognize it. It was the scroll from the dream, glowing and rolled up so that the golden knobs of the edges caught the light. Reaching for it, waiting for the rattle of paper and clink of metal, I grunted at the unexpected weight. It was rounded, and when the lightning flashed again, I saw my fingers curving about the edges of a green bowl. A relic. A perfectly logical, expected artifact, and it was probably Cherokee. For all I knew the place was full of them—perhaps a burial ground, or a prehistoric garbage heap. 

“ _Goddammit_!” I didn’t care if they heard me overhead, and it took a great deal of restraint not to drop the damned thing back into the dust and retreat empty-handed. I was embarrassed for myself—what the hell did I think I was going to find, a map with an X on it— _your father is here_? Scrambling up the side of the messily-made ditch, I stumbled, cradling the bowl against my chest protectively. The rim was sharp, unpolished, and cut my palm. Swearing, I forgot where I’d left the flashlight and tripped over it, landing in an arced heap over the pottery, breathing hard as the ground shook with thunder and the trees stories overhead began to whip about with a wind I couldn’t feel. 

With a limited view of the sky, a neat square cut out, like a patch from a quilt, it looked as though it were split in two as another bolt shivered and writhed across it. The cut on my hand was burning uncomfortably, and glancing down at it when the lightning shone, I saw why. The blue-green of the bowl was not paint, but the beginning of malachite growth, untumbled and unpolished. I should have thrown it away—the stone was toxic with its pores open. 

“Great.” I reached the ladder, swathing the thing in my shirt, and made to climb it before thinking better and retreating to the ground. The night could conceivably become worse if I tried to climb an aluminum ladder in a lightning storm. Instead I held the bowl with my shirt tails and fumbled with another torch, hunkering down against one dirt wall as the temperature dropped another few degrees.

I stared at the thing in my lap with ire. What use was it, to a museum that probably had dozens? What use, in fact, had it been to the people who made it? In the light, it hardly even looked like a bowl. It had no real base, and wouldn’t sit evenly on the ground. What I had taken for the rim was so jagged that it appeared something else had been attached, and what remained was the broken cap, like the upper half of a human skull. Funny how I’d never seen one like it, or even the same color. I’d not known malachite was native to the Eastern half of the U.S. at all. 

It was interesting, but I didn’t see how I might bend it to make keeping the site open a worthy prerogative. My father would know how to twist it into something worthy of _Time’s_ front cover, but in my hands it was no more useful than if it were still buried. 

Rising when I hadn’t seen any activity overhead for about five minutes, I moved to scale the ladder, holding the soon-to-be worthless treasure against my hip. 

I believe I heard the crackling sound before I felt it, and somewhere behind the thought-erasing pain, I recalled that malachite was formed from oxidized copper. 

The lightning tore through me from an entry point on my right hand, where it had been gripping the bowl, and branched out in under a second to scour every inch of my nervous system, fraying my senses and scalding the surface of my skin. 

Distantly, I could smell my hair and the tips of my fingers, smoking. I thought my flesh must be peeling back under the force of such heat, exposing every shot nerve to the naked air. The electric pulse roared through my ears in a deafening hiss and pop, burning the backs of my eyes and making each tooth vibrate in its socket. I thought I would be torn apart, unable to contain so much energy. It seared my insides in under a second; there was the sensation that my organs had melted together, transformed into a single, solid molten slab ready to combust under pressure. It was impossible to breathe, and my ribs rattled with the attempt. I could feel myself willing my body to move, but somewhere between brain and pulmonary tissue, electricity had short circuited the nerves. 

At some point it began to rain, magnifying the odor of singed flesh. I wasn’t certain if I was still standing, or had fallen, but suddenly everything was wet, soothing the burns but filling my lungs. I thought they must be mere rags now, full of holes and unable to contain air, letting the water drain through like a sieve and fill the rest of me. I must have been gasping, but I couldn’t hear a thing beyond a dull ringing that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, just humming painfully between my ears. I was sinking, and the darkness hurt less than the brilliant light. It was cooling. There was a nebulous, almost-there sort of a realization that I was dying, but before I could truly conceive of it, a pair of hands gripped my shirt, my skin, and dragged me upward, and I felt the silence pulling away, running off of me like water. My eyes didn’t work, but at once my left ear did, and I heard a rough voice and felt its breathing on my cheek. Were we close? I smelled wine and char, and as my senses budded again, I was in agony. I hardly heard him speak.

“You’re late.” 

 

TBC....


	2. Chapter 2

Although we don’t relish long-winded preambles, the dead tell stories too. I am Kougaiji son of Gyumaoh, and king of Erythros. My father was the most powerful mage-king of our time, and there was a brief time when I had been, too. My story begins here.

I was in council, pacing before the half-filled table of stony-eyed men and the softer, gentler gaze of my general. I made a point to look at him more frequently, using that imperceptible inclination of his head, that silent approval, to stamp down on the uncertainty welling in my throat. I had never ordered anything done that I was not reasonably certain would succeed. I would never send my men into danger without a greater good at the other end, but what choice did I have? 

“Sire.” Although his voice was only a rasp, the product of almost ten decades, Rotsen had only to lift a finger to direct all eyes upon him. He was the eldest council member and had served my father through his reign. Thus he was the most valuable now, too. I stilled my pacing for him as he stood, cane trembling against the shoe-smoothed tiles as he gained his footing. 

“You mustn’t tell the people.” It took all of his breath to say that, and suddenly, if possible, he looked older than his ninety-eight years, his face and beard drawn down by gravity, only his eyes straining upward, obscured by a rheumy glaze that he refused to let a healer treat. He claimed he saw the world more clearly without vision to impede his view. 

When I realized he had paused for my rebuttal (you see now, what respect he commanded, to make a king wonder if he should get to speak at all), I shook my head. “Don’t the people have the right to know of it? Their lives are in danger.”

“They have the right,” he allowed. “But what good would it do them to know? They cannot stop it. It would only make their lives unbearable, and then they would end. If your father succeeds…”

He didn’t need to finish; everyone in that room was well aware of what would happen if my father followed through. It would become more than a mortal affair, and not something any one, or all, of us could handle. 

I resisted the urge to chew the inside of my cheek in frustration, glancing at the great mosaic map on the wall behind me. It showed our world as it was, three realms, three massive islands framed by jagged mountains and rutted throughout their centers with valleys. Ours was by far the ripest, and the most vulnerable. I saw the name, Erythros, written on a curve in crimson tile that was faded and worn down from touching. I used to trace it as a child; my country’s name was the first word I could write, before even my own. 

Far West, done in smoky agate and gleaming hematite, sat Glaukia. Its stones shone like new despite their age, never touched, never considered, for nothing lived on Glaukia but shadows. All of its creatures were like wisps of wind, terrifying to behold but harmless, like a nightmare. No one went there, and from there, nothing came. It was useless too, as a port; no landing could be made; the shores were sheer cliffs, and only a climber or two had ever bothered to explore. Fewer had returned. Most men believed it was the Afterlife, where a spirit went when it left the body, and that was why the living were so unwelcome. I am a king, not a philosopher, and after discerning it useless, devoid of anything worth mining and entirely without a coastline, I forgot it, leaving it glittering on the wall only for completeness’ sake. 

Above both sat Melorodon in the north, jagged and icy and black everywhere but the hollow near the beaches where a great volcano rested, demarcated by artfully arranged stones and a heavy, bleeding ruby in the center. Those mosaics were shining, but cracked, much abused by angry gazes and once, by my fists. Tiny cuts still littered the sides of them, prickling each time I flexed my fingers and thought of the story my father used to tell me as a child, often enough that it was the first thing I could recite. He would warn me of the evil that lay in Melorodon, the danger, and now I had to look upon the map and know that it was his kingdom now, that he sat within black stone walls, above a living tomb. 

Before that, thousands of years ago, it was ruled by a wicked mage-king, Ukoku, who became corrupt with power and blood. They say that he lived longer than most men and never aged, like witches and succubae in fairy tales. His men didn’t know what to make of it, and considered him very crafty indeed, if he had discovered the secret of eternal youth, but very selfish, for failing to share it. As he aged, in years but not in body, he refused a wife, claiming he wanted no son to contest the throne, as he had no plans of giving it up. It was lucky for us, who came later, that he never sired one. 

No man could live forever, but Ukoku did not intend to die. Conditions in his kingdom declined rapidly as his initially cautious but just rule deteriorated into one of paranoia and abject cruelty. The change of heart could not be attributed to greed or fear; no one was strong enough to contest him, for in those days the distant Erythros was divided among many tribes, its northern half already colonized by Melorodon. If he wished to expand southward, he might have with a flick of his wrist; sheep and their shepherds would not be likely to stand in his way. But his anger was very great, almost hubristic, considering he had never suffered anything at the hands of his victims. He craved executions, and what used to be paid in gold came to be paid in   
blood. Law was only casually enforced, and often only to glut his temper. It wasn’t for fifty years that anyone discovered why. 

The mage-king’s page came in on him in the baths and found the water red and frothing; he thought the king murdered, until he turned about, whole and uncut. That was, he had confided in the page, the root of his magic. I am a mage king too, but my magic is not dark, and insofar as I know, no one has ever made Ukoku’s attempts since, at least not with success. 

Over half a century Ukoku had taken more than one thousand lives, easily, and bathed in their blood. His magic allowed him to sap up the energy of their bodies, their life, so that the vessel withered while the soul slipped out. But if the soul is the good and the virtue of a being, what remains after death is the evil, the vice. Absorbing their energies like a dry cloth, he neglected to consider what else he took in. While feasting on youth he sopped up also every sort of hatred, every wicked tendency and inclination to distress and to pain that any of his victims had had. Even in good men, there is some proclivity for brutality, but the nature of mortality balances that out in most, neutralizing it. Soon it became too late; to wring it out of him would deprive him of life at the same time. He only consumed more, and the stories differ as to how. Some versions claim he bathed in blood, others that he drank it, and ate of the flesh. All agree that it darkened him while empowering him. There is power in evil too, whence comes the necessity for power in good, and there is, of course, power in mortals. The energies he ate up gave him the strength of thousands, and even the strongest warriors were useless against him. Men of Melorodon banded together to fight him, and eventually his army turned on him too, flinging battalions of men at the castle only to be deflected by his power, which manifested itself, as a mage’s might, in any of the four elements. Soldiers of Erythros came too, tribal leaders and warlords, and were exterminated with ease. Those powerful enough to tempt him were lured inside. It is said he consumed them. 

In the end no one could destroy him, but there was, our ancestors found, a man who could lock him away. He was a priest from the east of Erythros that they called a Sanzo, who kept watch over only a small village, but was said to have the power to heal the wounded and encourage the rain to fall. The people of the village told Erythrian soldiers that if there was a way, their priest would know; he had the words of the gods on paper, and guarded it with his life. In a time when few were literate, it was easy to be overawed by a scroll, but the soldiers brought him anyway, since he was willing, and they took him to the castle.

By then Ukoku had built up an army of his own, out of the black dirt of Melorodon, men corrupted by evil or earth demons dressed in rags and corroded iron. Erythros’ rag-tag army escorted the Sanzo as far as the gates, deflecting catapult debris and oil-slicked arrows streaking the sky with fire. It was storming over the volcano where Ukoku lived, as it always was in those days. Lightning was his most powerful weapon; it immobilized an individual in a fraction of a second and atomized the body, rendering it useless, too weak to hold the soul inside. And it was a fearsome, painful thing, scorching earth and skittering like a spider over water to destroy everything beneath it. Fire couldn’t burn as hot. 

But the Sanzo priest deflected it in battle and used it for himself, the good within him warring with the mage-king’s evil, throwing off the bolts and forcing both armies back from an electric wall. The labor was a long one, and the roar of the king’s storm drowned out the priest’s chanting. Whether he read from the scroll or used it as a guard, no one knows, but his talismans, as flimsy as the sutra he wore, were seen afterward, covering the inside of the castle and hanging from the ceiling. Ukoku he imprisoned beneath it, stories below the dungeon, dozens of feet within the earth at the base of his own great castle, surrounded by the molten heat of the volcano and penned in by sacred seals. The Sanzo’s only injury was a great gash along his left shoulder, a root-like pattern where the lightning had slithered through him, and he said it had weakened his arm, but nothing more.

It was this great catastrophe that first unified the people of my country, who elected the strongest of their surviving warriors, my ancestor Seu-Ssydo, a chief of shepherds at the time, their king. In thanks, he gifted the Sanzo priest with his family heirloom, a copper helmet, an emblem of his mastery of Ukoku’s lightning and his status as a soldier, though he could hardly lift a sword. The priest in turn gave Seu-Ssydo his scroll, asking him to keep it safe, lest there come a need for it in the future. He said, let these two things be brought together again only for war, and made his departure. The legend doesn’t say what became of him, but his village reported that he never returned, and no sign of him or his copper helmet was ever found. They have since built shrines, all empty, with not so much as a scrap of clothing to venerate. 

The scroll, on the other hand, Seu-Ssydo gilded and stored away, locking it in the center of the castle. His son, more foolhardy but without cruel intention, once tried to unravel and read it, only to receive a shock, like lightning, that ran the length of his body and almost set the store rooms on fire. He lost the use of his left eye and arm, and Seu-Ssydo forbade anyone from touching the scripture again.

After a time the elation of peace wore off, and people began to become afraid that Ukoku would break free. He was not immortal, but we did not have the power to kill him. After a time, imprisoned and isolated, his body degenerated, aging rapidly without the fuel that had so long sustained it. But evil does not truly die, and some part of him, the dangerous part, lived on. He would lure wayfarers to the base of the castle, convince or force them to make blood libations where it might seep into the earth, where he might smell it. The fear was always that he would take a host and resurrect.

People feared. How strong were the talismans holding him back? How long would their power endure? Perhaps, from the outside, a very powerful individual might remove them at Ukoku’s bidding. No one dared venture down below the castle, but the first time the volcano rumbled there was a mass exodus, an emptying out of Melorodon, and people fled to Erythros, populating its coastlines and valleys.

It came to pass, one hundred years after the first Sanzo’s departure, that the gods saw fit to send us a second. He came dressed curiously, but seemed to think us even more so. He was afraid; he didn’t know who he was, and it was not until he disrobed that anyone else knew it either. But seeing the scar on his shoulder, like a raised red root, a thunderbolt, they learned. When they took him to the scroll, he was able not only to touch it, but to drape it over his shoulders, and my ancestors knew him for a Sanzo priest. Since then there have been many more, and they come once every century, thrown through the barrier between our worlds by a merciful god with a punctuality we set our calendars by. It is always by the sixth full moon of the year, mid-century, and after a time a festival sprang up to venerate the night. The presence of the Sanzos always serves to allay the fears of the people. The priests had guarded and strengthened the sacred seals of Ukoku’s prison and, if the volcano had been trembling, they stilled it. They did all this within the night of the full moon, and never lingered longer than the time between, returning before it darkened completely.

These men come from another world, and since Ukoku was first imprisoned, there have been thirty of them, the last having arrived three years ago, when my father ruled Erythros. It is thought, by some, that they are all descended of the first. He may have vanished, but he continues to protect his people, sending his sons from the world where he lives to safeguard ours. If ever Ukoku were to break free, only a Sanzo priest had the power to match him. All the armies in Erythros would hold him back only as well as a pump saves a sinking ship; it might buy us time, hours, at the cost of thousands of lives. But it wouldn’t save us, and every man in the room knew it, too. We had just seen one, but a few years back. Before. Before my father’s betrayal, before he fled the walls of his city with a secret purpose at heart, telling no one, not even his own son, of his destination. I remembered the priest well; he’d come, after all, when I was in training to become king. 

I clenched my fist again, watching my knuckles turn white beneath brown skin, and listened to the silence in the room. They had heard me argue it, hope it, many times despite the numbers. The gods had provided for us once, and with this danger lurking… He might still come. The moon wouldn’t be full for another day, but our priests had been grim. It was the wrong year, they said, far, far too soon. There had been no omens, no signs from the stars, and unlike before, this time we needed him to do more than recharge the barrier. It was weakening fast, and one of the most powerful men in our world was working to snap it and set Ukoku free. It hurt my pride like nothing else to admit desperation, but we needed saving. 

“We will not tell them yet,” I ruled, speaking with my eyes on the ruby, catching my own reflection in the cracked table of the gem, remembering the keenness of its girdle. Again my hand throbbed, and I flexed it. “It would induce a panic.” I was stating the obvious for the sake of speaking, because no one else was. “But if in the end we can do nothing, they deserve to know. They deserve a chance.”

No one asked, a chance at what? 

\--------------------

 

The festival of the sixth moon went on outside the palace gates and throughout the capital, sprawling over the hills and valleys of the entire country in bright bursts of color and sticky-sweet scents. It was celebrated every year, the most vibrant being the hundredth anniversary, which left people craning their heads upward to see the man who would fall from the sky. I hoped this year would yield similar results, though such a thing had never occurred. 

I’ve been to the carnival before, and knew what it would look like, were I to walk the streets. People set up stalls along roadsides, selling everything from household wares at inflated prices to sugary desserts packed into paper or impaled on sticks to be carried about. Banners and streamers and crepe lanterns hung over houses in the morning, and by evening there would be drunks draped atop them too. It was an occasion to celebrate that was always marked by bold color and the heavy flow of mead. Usually it was the same in the castle, but none of the scarlet wall hangings or gold trim had been unfurled, and even the youths among the guards were sober. The members of Council congregated in their rooms in small clusters, but seemed not inclined to speak at length, except for Rotsen, who talked even in his sleep. Outside of my sister’s quarters, music did not play, and when there was nothing to discuss, I paced the halls and looked at maps already seared into the back of my eyes. Never had I been so completely dependent upon another individual, and I felt a new empathy for my subjects, the weight of responsibility grinding down and making my neck ache. 

I had taken every precaution, made every attempt. On the rooftops, there were men watching the moon and priests making sacrifices. The gods might be kind in their mercy and our anxiety. In every village I had posted a small battalion, ostensibly to promote safety, but secretly to keep watch for the priest. If he was at all like the others, he would not know himself.

I sat on the wide limestone windowsill in my own quarters, irritated by the slumber-inducing softness of the chair. The door of the reception room was open to the foyer, and the twin latticed doors of my bedchamber had been flung apart as well, letting the lazy flow of air creep throughout the space, flooding it with the thick scent of climbing jasmine and baking cinnamon. They were my chambers from youth, since I’d left the nursery, and therefore not the king’s. I had been unable to bring myself to occupy them after my father’s sudden departure, but had servants keep them neat, as if he would return. They had been doing that, dusting surfaces no hands touched and turning sheets no one slept in, for the past twelve months. It had been that long since his crown, forfeited by his own escape, had been pressed down over my head, replacing the woven gold fillet I’d worn as prince. It would take longer than a year to adjust to the new title; I still looked behind me every now and again, when someone said “king,” waiting for my father’s booming voice to answer them. 

He was a source of great pride, once, and, afterward, of even greater shame. Because it had taken so long for the truth to become clear (it still wasn’t, not really), for most of his self-imposed exile I had only worried for him, longed to receive a letter or a message. He was only sixty-five, not so old, for our line, but already it was as if he were dead. 

When he left the castle, I’d seen him off; to call it a diplomatic mission is to exaggerate. He was going to Melorodon, where now very few men dwelled. Unable to make a living from the dark earth under which a monster lay, they were herders, keeping sheep and small dragons, nothing to rival ours, and living on weeds and stringy meat. None of our line had ever attempted to conquer them; there was nothing there to gain, and they so valued their independence that we only ventured to trade every now and again, letting them mostly alone. It was for this that my father went over; although Melorodon can boast of few resources, jet and coal they have in abundance, and most importantly, the stone from which Ukoku built his castle, the impenetrable abaton. 

The men there arrange themselves in tribes, a living social artifact that replicates Erythros’ own history. My father meets with several. The contract, always verbal, among a people who cannot write, is usually very simple, involving the exchange of something as basic as grain for rock. Erythrians would travel the dark sea to mine it, refine it, and carry it back; the trade was only an agreement that they would not be aggressed by the tribes of Melorodon and that they might have guides so as to avoid the pits of swampland that dot the shores. Although it was an uncomfortable mission, given the nature of the land, it was not unusual or particularly dangerous, to judge from precedent. 

You can imagine, then, when the men returned with their boats heavy with abaton but lacking my father, that I was in shock. I was twenty-three, having entered my training for the crown only a few years earlier, and uncertain of what to do. _He left_ , they said, he left and went north, up toward the castle. I demanded the story of them in a hundred different ways, but it came out always the same. I went to seek him out myself, leaving Rotsen in charge of things, but they forbade me from approaching the castle, from going too near to the base of the great volcano. 

“He saw it and would hear no reason. It was as if he were lured.”

My father was not a stupid man, nor greedy. I could think of nothing that would lure him—what could he want, when he already held all that was valuable in the world, and had the power to take what remained and was not? It must be sorcery. They thought it was the monster that called him, appealing to evil in his soul, and the men who perpetuated the rumor I had imprisoned without trial. They would not say these things treasonous things of my father; he was still king. 

I sent men to the castle, taking only volunteers, and they traced the lands around it, circled its base, and, finding no sign of my father, returned empty-handed. It would be a fool’s mission to enter the fortress, and though I knew of an entrance, from the last Sanzo, I didn’t send them there. They couldn’t remove him by force, and would likely die somewhere on the staircase besides. Clearly he was in thrall to that beast, out of his mind. Resurrecting Ukoku, serving as his host, would strip the life of him. My father would not do that. 

But what he did do there, I couldn’t imagine. He lived for so long, so close to the pulsing power stories below the castle floor. But too much time passed waiting, and the expeditions I sent out resulted in nothing but rattled soldiers. Melorodon was a terrifying place, like walking into a nightmare. I’ve been there only the once, myself, as I mentioned. I tried to imagine the time before it was dark, but couldn’t. I tried to imagine why my father might have gone there, what he might intend to do, and _wouldn’t_. 

My father’s council urged me to take the crown, and when I felt its chilly weight on my skull, I felt too the bone crunching burden of a yoke slipping over my shoulders. The life of every being in Erythros was suddenly mine to protect, and I fancied I could feel the pull of the energies, draining and needful, and it was a terrifying honor to be the source of their safety. I was not prepared; this was not the way of things, for a man to take his father’s crown before his death. 

Our line, the strongest for a reason, since it was our privilege and burden to rule, could allow for only one mage-king. The abilities and energies of past kings collected and were passed down through firstborn children like living heirlooms. It was the people’s store, the source of their defense and well-being, and we only guarded it for them, being influential enough to wield it. There is a stipulation. To prevent war, the sagacity and strength that accompanies such an inheritance can touch only one living man at a time; the son only inherits upon the father’s death. This is how I knew my father was still alive, and why I was so afraid for him and for my country. He was bringing power very near to that monster and very far from our land. He would be strong enough to host Ukoku’s presence, to tolerate such power within his body, for a decent stretch of time. Long enough to rend our country asunder. That was all Ukoku would want, a creature of hate and destruction, self-perpetuating. With my father’s body he could do that. And while he was alive, I could do nothing to defend my people. 

Since then, the volcano has begun to shake again. This is not altogether unusual, but, as it became increasingly frequent, it caused a stir among the priests, and then among the Council. It was six months ago that it erupted, spewing hot lava out at such a rate that some of the fisherman off of our own coasts were able to watch it like fireworks. When it died down, I sent a ship for survivors and wounded, thinking of our trading partners, but none were found. They had likely retreated to the swamps or the other side of the massive island; to sail it would take days, and they could hide like snakes. I called the regiment home. 

If the volcano was active, so was Ukoku. It had never erupted, not once in our histories, and suddenly twice in a year. My father’s presence there was no coincidence. I knew without their having to tell me what he was up to, but the priests rasped the words at me like accusations, as if somehow the poison ran in my bloodline. 

_He’s weakening the scrolls with his own power. He’s deteriorating the barrier—he’ll loose that beast on all of us._  
My face flamed, and I pressed it into the cool glass of the window, drawing in a shaky breath. How he could put himself in such danger, put all of us in it, and give into such a temptation, I couldn’t know. It wasn’t my place to wonder. Retrieving him was impossible, and I risked what little help I was to Erythros by going there myself. I would do what I could.

The heavy brass handle of the door that led into the halls, past the foyer, clicked and snapped a second before swift footsteps tapped over the marble floors. They were too calm to be Lirin’s, and no on else entered without knocking.

“Dokugakuji.”

His hand came down over my shoulder, a heavy, comforting presence, and squeezed hard. “Kou.” 

He was the best of my generals, and the most loyal. His father had served in the same position under mine before his death. I think I loved him even in the early parts of our youth. 

“You were silent today,” I said quietly, remembering his supportive gaze and the soft line of his mouth. I remembered willing it to move, to spout words of hope. 

“What did you want me to say?” He sat at the opposite end of the wide ledge, drawing one leg up over the other and angling his gaze at me so that the moonlight caught his scar. 

I rubbed my face in exhaustion. “I don’t know.” I wanted him to touch me again, but he sat still, removed, watching the night sky, and I didn’t reach.

“Wouldn’t it be something if he did come?” Doku asked. “We’ve never needed help before, but once a century, so there hadn’t been call for a break in tradition. But the Gods sent him when we needed him, once. It’s not so hard to think they might do so again.”

I smiled thinly at him. “I hope so. It’s infuriating to do nothing. To sit. Wait.” My body twitched in spite of its fatigue. 

“I know. You’ve never handled that well, being unable to put your life on the line for everyone else.” 

“It’s hard to depend on someone I’ve never seen.” I wanted not to think about what would happen if he didn’t come, if no one came, and if my father continued to pluck at the seals. He was strong enough. He could remove them, with time. 

“What did you make of the last one?”

While my father and I had received the last Sanzo, Dokugakuji had never seen him, but I remembered him with great clarity. It felt like an eon ago, like my youth, that time Before. 

“Very kind. At first, unnerving, because I thought him stupid. He would say such vapid things, and laugh all the time, and I wondered if he took anything seriously at all. He was always smiling, and I thought that unusual.” I eyed him knowingly, “None of _our_ priests smile.” 

Dokugakuji’s mouth twitched in agreement.

“My father let me meet with him one evening. He was under a pile of tomes in the library, making a mess of notes with a quill. He told me he had never seen anything quite like our world, and didn’t think he would be able to take back what wasn’t in his head. So he was memorizing as much as he could. I thought that was funny at the time, that of all the things he could do at the palace, he wanted to sit and look at books.”

“They say he was a scholar, in his land?”

“Yes. A scholar who studies lost civilizations. Isn’t that strange, that their world is so old and so large that nations have died out? Even Melorodon never died out; they simply came here.” I marveled at my recollection of his explanation; the Sanzo had said that in his world, there were thousands of lost civilizations, with only scraps of records left in sand and scripture.   
“I think it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dokugakuji smiled. “Hakkai once mentioned the dragons. He said he had wanted to ride—and that they don’t have them, where he lives.”

“He said he’d never heard of one outside of legend—isn’t that ridiculous? And yes, I saw him ride. Ah—try to.” I laughed despite myself. “I’ve never seen a man act like that around a mount, though I suppose, if one’s never seen one…”

“Did he fall?”

“At least three times. He said the only thing he’s ever ridden stays on the ground, and I asked him how on earth that was useful in battle. But when he did get up, he clung for dear life—I think he thought the dragon would throw him. I had to explain that even if he did fall, they were trained to catch their riders.”

“I’m sure Hakkai would love to show off to another one. He’s so proud of your stables.”

“He does keep them in good order,” I allowed. Hakkai was our dragon-keeper; he had a gift, almost communicative, and managed them very well. Doku knew him through his illegitimate half-brother, an apt lieutenant who needed as much reigning-in as the dragons to serve properly on the field. Perhaps that was why Hakkai seemed so fond of him. 

“He could offer him a ride with a saddle.” Doku suggested, tapping the glass to draw my attention to a pair of guards below, drinking a little too enthusiastically from their canteens. I shook my head at the unspoken offer; let them, they would need it. “Wouldn’t that be funny, a grown man in one of those, like a child wears before his legs grow long enough to sit astride?” Talking about it as though it were possible raised hope in my chest, and I found myself saying a thousandth prayer that night.

“I would very much like to see that,” I said. And I meant it. 

 

 

When the full moon and the night of the festival passed with no word or stir from any village, I began to think about how to tell my people. The Assembly was a grim one, and even Rotsen sat silently, his mouth a fine line stitched into his face. I proposed the obvious, that I go and stop my father myself. In my mind there was a slim chance that it wasn’t a suicide mission, but I expected disapproval anyway. My council murmured among themselves, but it was Dokugakuji who made himself heard first, slamming a hard fist into the table so that it shook, tipping wine glasses and splashing the floor with scarlet. The others fell silent.

“That’s an impossibility. A paradox.” His eyes bored into mine and said, _and you know it._ “The only way you could ever become strong enough to dispatch him would be by killing him and inheriting his power. Until you kill him, you can’t kill him.” 

“I could buy us time.” I wondered if I even could. Could I fight my father—try in earnest to kill him? How did I even know this was of his own volition, surely it couldn’t be. He had been lured, and was as much a victim as the rest of us. But it was the duty of a king to protect his people—and if dying for them would do that, it was both of our jobs to see it done. 

“For what?” Doku’s eyes widened hopelessly. “He would recover afterward and just start plucking the talismans off again. You couldn’t buy us more than a year, and we’ve got more than a lifetime before anyone comes again.” The others rumbled their agreement, though why my life was so precious to them, when soon there would be none, I didn’t know. 

“Well we must do something,” Yaone spoke from the end of the table, her voice very calm, though I could see her eyes shaking. Dokugakuji turned to look at her, and I imagined what his gaze must look like. 

“We will muster the troops,” I said tiredly, “And we will besiege the castle.” Everyone wanted to ask, _to what end?_   
But we couldn’t very well sit and do nothing. “There is a chance it might shock my father out of it. I will send his own generals to lead the expedition.” I resisted the urge to bite the inside of my cheek; they were looking at me with pity. Did none of them believe, then, that my father had been seduced by a spell? They acted as though he’d gone there willingly! 

“Those are powerful men, highness.” Rotsen rasped. “Men Ukoku could lure with spell-words.”

“If they make attempts to enter the foundation of the fortress, shoot them.” I would sooner see them dead than taken over by his evil, destroyed slowly. I cared for their honor like my own—they were my men.

If the Assembly saw otherwise, they didn’t say so, and I spent the rest of the night drawing up official orders for the gathering of troops and the doling out of generalships. Xaja would be in charge of all of them and, when the army split into three battalions, he would take the right. He was my father’s first pick in battle since I was young, an incredibly strong man who stood almost two heads above me and wielded a shovel-sized battle axe and a shield twelve skins deep, plated in bronze. I’ve seen him fight; he is formidable. Without my magic and speed, he would have my head in milliseconds. Xaja and my father were close once, as Dokugakuji and I are, on the surface. I hoped his presence, the sound of his battle-voice when it pierces the clamorous air, might startle my father out of Ukoku’s hypnosis. 

The left would be carried by Suelep. He was ancient, but apt, and again, another friend of my father’s. I thought those two men most dear to him, and most likely to bring him home. If not, I put Gojyo on the center with the Companions, also closest to the base of the fortress. I knew, if anyone tried to enter it, he would be able to stop them. Although he was best with a spear or scythe and wouldn’t carry a bow, perhaps fearful of being mistaken for a lower rank, I had seen him shoot, and he was excellent. He would keep a secure guard. 

I attempted several different arrangements, inspecting the layout of the fortress from a withered old scroll, trying not to let myself think it was useless. I could send one thousand men or one, and it wouldn’t matter in the end; Ukoku’s power could decimate them all. It would take longer with more, and it would take longer if my father was wounded, but in the end, the results would be the same. I had failed, and my mind continued backpedaling, seeking out a loophole in the scenario. I would do anything, give anything, and that sudden willingness to die should have opened doors. Something should have been available, and I’d never waged a battle wherein there was no option but death. Telling them I thought my father might be drawn away was a sliver of hope against a glaring reality, and I wasn’t foolish enough to believe it. I rather wished I was.

Dokugakuji entered at midnight, peering over my shoulder and reading the orders, his eyes sweeping over the charted troops. I felt him frown and grow tense. 

“I’m not to be sent out?” He asked softly, and I felt his breath stir the heavy bronze that hung from my ears. As my highest-ranking general, he was also the leader of the Companions. 

“Not yet. I need my father’s men to lead the march. I wouldn’t make you their subordinate.” We both knew that wasn’t the real reason.

“You don’t need to concern yourself with my honor.”

I thought that a funny retort, and looked up at an angle, frowning. “I always concern myself with your honor, Dokugakuji.” 

He touched my shoulder, and I wanted to lean back into him, like the once, but I kept my back straight, acknowledging the gesture with an inclination of my head. “They look at me with pity.”

“Who?”

“You know who. The Assembly. The servants. They think he’s done it for power.” I didn’t give him time to reply, turning on the chair to face him and then rising to pace the length of the room until carpeting gave way to worn hardwood. “He has been nothing but a just king.”

“He has.” Doku agreed.

“What sort of power would he grasp for that is more than what he already has? He couldn’t have more. There’s no sense in it—my father is a logical man. You know this,” I prompted, seeing him nod.

“I do.”

“They don’t trust him anymore. They think I’m foolish for sending men there to wake him, as if from a sleep…” I glanced at him, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Do you?”

“You are no fool, Kougaiji.”

“Do you believe him enchanted?” I pressed. 

“I don’t know.” He was silent for a moment, but I sensed he wasn’t finished. “No one in our history has ever been lured by Ukoku before.”

“My father is the first in generations to go to Melorodon and meet with its people.”

He nodded, “This is true.”

“It would be madness. Even the strongest host would be eventually dissolved under the press of Ukoku’s power—no one could withhold it. There is nothing to be gained, nothing he did not have.” I urged him to see the absurdness of it all. 

“We don’t know what is to be gained. No one’s ever tried it before.” He had taken my seat while I paced, and sat with his legs splayed, hands hanging clasped beneath them. My eyes alighted on the curving scar that ran over his left knuckles, remembering the sword that had given it, meant for my neck. “Ukoku has…a special brand of power.” 

I saw where he was taking it, and felt my stomach drop and knot instantly. “You cannot believe that,” I implored, feeling my demeanor change, becoming submissive in exhaustion. The idea that my father would have done it for a taste of Ukoku’s undying life, to rule over both nations forever—what, in darkness? Of course I’d thought of it. I’d thought of it as the excuse the fools in Council would make to me, the pretenders to seats of power and men who secretly hated my bloodline. No one with sense, no one who truly _knew_ him could believe him capable of that sort of savagery. “He made you what you are,” I reminded him in a hiss, feeling badly almost as soon as the words were out. 

Doku failed to look stung, only shaking his head. “Kou, _you_ made me what I am. He was good to my father, and he was good to me. But the proximity of death has a way of changing men. They do much to avoid it.” _Especially when they have drunk deep of life._

“You think he willed it.” I accused, my voice hollow. 

Dokugakuji held out his hands, “I think that I don’t know, and that we cannot know, but if I had my druthers, I’d wish Ukoku had taken a liking to the son, rather than the father. We wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Because I couldn’t host his power.” I very much wished the same thing.

“Because you would never give in to it.” 

\----------------------

I slept, if you could call it that, after the last torch song had been sung and the tiny bobbing lights in the valleys below were gradually extinguished. I wondered how soon to tell them. When they saw the troops marching off strung with banners and ribbons for luck about their pikes, they would guess. I’d rather face them, walk among them, let them spit on me. The son of the man who forsook them. 

I prayed hard to the gods for aid. Priests held out their arms in invocation, but I thought the gods might be more pleased to see a king kneeling than his priests standing. Beseeching without an icon was difficult, and I kept my eyes on the moon. I thought perhaps in sleep they would send me an answer or at least an omen. 

Instead I dreamed of my youth, waking in a flower-strewn courtyard just outside the atrium, the plash of water on granite loud in one ear. 

_“Napping, Prince?” A servant from the nursery, just lately having given me up to the central quarters at age nine, bowed her head and winked at me. I blushed, finding that I had fallen asleep on the fountain’s edge, one foot propped up on a spurting fish sculpture, book on my chest. I took myself very seriously as a child, and thought it a rather lazy thing to do, dozing in midday when I should have been at my studies. She passed me by, and quicker, smaller footsteps followed._

_“Kou!” Dokugakuji, his face clear of scrapes and scars at only eleven, wore a boy’s armor and still carried a blunted wooden pike. He had come from the training grounds, likely the arms master had just let them out. It was the end of the month, when a harsh bout of training regularly culminated in a harsher yet contest. They were a mock-up of the melees kings occasionally hosted for warriors, less violent, of course, and with more regulations, but essentially the same concept. The victors were even awarded small prizes, modest trinkets that were costly enough, for a squire. The contests were set by skill level, rather than age, and I found this fairer for people of my own abilities than Dokugakuji’s. Magic could grow exponentially, but a body could only do so much to keep up._

_Because of his sharp aim and strong arm, my friend was often paired with boys as much as four or five years his elder, at least a foot higher. I had come to a few bouts, but my presence, the arms-master told me, made the other boys nervous. They thought I might judge them and report privately to my father, and that this might affect their rank and assignment years in the future. I didn’t feel that judging them should ever be my place, seeing that I was a mage and fought very differently. Really, I only ever went there to watch Dokugakuji. He was my dearest friend, the son of my father’s most esteemed general, and I liked to cheer him on, especially when he tumbled a great brute of a boy twice his size._

_But usually he didn’t come to me still armored and armed. After a beat, I recognized a scarlet ribbon wrapped and knotted inelegantly about the head of his false weapon. It meant a victory._

_Drawing my feet away from the fish and trying to look less mussed, relieved that at least he hadn’t seen me sleeping, I folded my legs beneath me and gave what I thought must have been a regal smile. He skidded to a halt before the edge of the fountain, and I was startled when, instead of leaping up to perch beside me, he fell on one knee into an awkward bow, miming the courtly gesture._

_“Dokugakuji?” I coughed when he didn’t move, thinking my voice sounded unfairly young, especially when his was starting to break. “You may rise.”_

_He couldn’t help himself from grinning when he did look up at me again, standing slowly and holding forth the stave to ease off the ribbon._

_“I finally won today,” Doku said, at last accepting the invitation when I moved over and gestured to where the stone bank was kept cool from the shade._

_“Tell me,” I urged, wishing I had been there. What he described, I found later, was nothing short of the truth. He added nothing to embellish his part, and gave due credit to his last opponent, a boy of almost sixteen and a good twenty pounds heavier._

_“It was pure luck, I swear, that the sun came out when it did. I turned him to face it, and had a second more to lunge. The arms-master says I’ll be a squire early, and maybe make a young lieutenant.”_

_It didn’t surprise me when this came to pass. I congratulated him heartily, fingering the thin victory ribbon and running it over my palm. Traditionally, after a melee, one gave them to girls, but most of the boys kept them as tally-mark trophies in their chambers._

_“Is that why you bowed to me?”_

_He kicked his feet. “Well yeah. Gotta get used to it—my father says I should start. He says in court I’ll always bow, even if I don’t in private.” After a pause, he seemed to consider whether he should have repeated that, and shrugged it off. We were too close for distrust. “Why, did it bother you?”_

_“No,” I said quickly, because a prince should never be bothered by it, “It was just strange.”_

_He broke the awkwardness between us when he dipped his head and, from beneath the light armor and the linen of his clothing, he drew out a dazzling chain, fine as silk but ten times as strong._

_“You won that?” It was a very admirable prize, a burnished gold lariat with links tiny as thread, almost invisible against the skin. At the base hung a small hand-wrought bird, a sparrow, for they were sacred to us, and he knew I liked them. He held it up high, to let the sun glint off of it, I thought, and then brought it down quickly over my head. The metal was still warm from his skin._

_“I won it for you,” he said simply._

_“But it’s very fine. You ought to keep it.”_

_He nodded, “I did keep it. And now I’m giving it to you. Sparrow Prince.” He meant it in good humor, and has called me that way ever since, even as adults, though only ever in private._

_“I...thank you.” I nodded, pressing the metal down against my chest, beneath the linen tunic, and let him grasp my forearm the way I’d seen his father and mine do. It was a very adult sort of handshake, rather than the silly things we had invented before, complex rituals and secret codes, as boys do._

_I was happy for him, but a little sad too, in my selfish way. I feared his becoming distant; few people wanted to be friends with the king’s only son, and fewer still were honest enough to be worth the effort. Sensing my reluctance, he used his grip on my arm to jerk me forward into an embrace, and when I kicked outward instinctively, we both fell back with a shout into the fountain._

_“Dokugakuji!” I snarled, fishing my now ruined book out and letting it flop with a smacking sound over the side. He was still laughing uproariously, and it’s a wonder no one came to see what we were up to. The fountain was deep, almost three feet, and I slammed my fists into the surface, sending a wave of water upward to silence his chortling. In a moment, we were both sloshing about in the blue basin and dampening the whole center of the courtyard, doing half the gardener’s job for him as the gardenias lowered their heads, saturated and smelling sticky sweet in the sunlight. I chased him, and when he turned on me, my heel slid and I went backwards and right into him, sending a surge of water forth with distinctive spattering sound that came through even in the dream._

_“I got you Kou.” He’d half-caught me, and in tugging me up, snickered at the mess my hair must have made, tufted in all directions because I kept it long. Flattening it, I sent him my best scowl, but he caught my hand._

_“Aw, you look kinda pretty like that though. For a prince,” he added tactfully, and I splashed him again._

_“Who’s pretty!” I challenged, and he grabbed me in a strong hold, maybe the same one that had won him the fight, and looked at me funny for a moment before dipping his head forward and pecking my mouth with his own._

_“You.”_

_“’Pretty’ is for girls,” I argued, miffed that he was treating me like one. I had some idea of what a kiss was, though being a boy, I’d given it very little passing thought, having my own concerns at that age. “And_ that’s _something you do with girls, too.”_

_He just smirked and shrugged a shoulder, as if he knew something I didn’t. “But I like it better with you. But only if you don’t tell.”_

_I paused and considered it, nodding after a moment and touching the pendant again. “I won’t tell.”_

 

When I woke, the splashing noise was still echoing in my head, though it sounded distant. While the effects of the dream passed from me, bringing me back to the sunless space behind the panels of my bed curtains, it seemed curious that I could still hear water moving. Going to the window, I saw shadows slipping about in the courtyard below, and the moonlight reflected on the fountain in shards as the basin churned. There were muddled murmurs, and then harried footsteps. I heard the brusque, sleep-roughened voice of a guard bellow, _“Find the king at once!”_

I was on the stairs when he did, halfway down already, and brushed his shoulder to grasp his attention. I thought I knew what had happened. “Bring Dokugakuji.” 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins from Kougaiji's POV--I alternate between his and Samuel-Sanzo's.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is actually reading this, please drop a line?

I was gasping for breath, but my lungs didn’t heed me. At first they wouldn’t move, my chest wouldn’t compress, and I struggled. I felt my ribs give a little after a few tries, some power returning to my nervous system, but instead of air, a gush of water flowed in, choking me. Strong hands hauled me up, slamming into my back and, awkwardly, my sides, and everything hurt horribly. I spat up ferric water and heaved, less concerned with my whereabouts than I was for my search for oxygen. As I gulped like a landed fish, things came into focus in pieces, fuzzy surroundings clarifying as all five senses returned at an annoyingly indolent pace. I was on my knees, bent over a rocky ledge. No, a smooth chiseled edge. I heard water splashing, and smelled a sickeningly strong perfume. I was in a fountain, wet up to the chest and almost shivering, though the night was balmy and I was pretty sure I’d just been struck by lightning. The hands that had been hauling me up stopped, and I heard that voice say again, “You’re late.”

My eyes were bleary until I rubbed them, and a semi-circle of unfamiliar faces came into focus. I thought I was in a garden, though who any of the on-lookers were was a mystery. I didn’t recognize anyone from my own crew, and I didn’t see Shannon glaring from among them either. One stood out to me; he had impossibly red hair, like fire, that licked his shoulders and nape, hanging over heavy earrings that made me think of Mayan relics my father had brought home once. There was a crimson slash on his face, too perfect to be a scar. His teeth were long, especially the canines, and glinted ivory in the dark in an intimidating way. Although his eyes were shadowed, his face, very angular, seemed receptive; I thought he was leaning over to aid me, but another man drew me out completely and helped me to stand. I shrugged him off and waged a decent battle against gravity.

“Who the hell are you?” The sounds that came out were unfamiliar; everything about my voice was wrong, pitch, octave, cadence. At least I got the tone right.

The other men muttered—were they wearing, what was that, _armor?_ —and stepped back, except for the redhead and the fellow at my side. Upon closer inspection, he was dressed funny too, and disarmingly tall. He spoke first. 

“You are the Sanzo?”

“Samuel,” I corrected him automatically. “Want to answer my question?”

Red shook his head at his tall friend. “He won’t know himself. They never do.” He spoke with a graceful lilt in his voice, and when he stepped forward, I saw his eyes matched his hair, a dark red-brown, and they were gentle about the edges, tired. I got the feeling they could be very sharp, but it did little to blunt my tongue. 

“I’m pretty sure I know myself,” I bit out. “Now where am I? How did I get here? Are you Shannon’s people?”

“I do not know any Shannon,” the man said, his tone unwavering. He looked as though he were in disbelief, which was pretty damned unfair, considering I was the one who just got struck by God knows how many kilovolts of power. 

“Would you remove your shirt?”

_“What?”_ I swiveled on my heel, trying to ignore the pulsing pain that ran through my body at such a simple gesture. But I was alive, and that counted more just then. “I’m leaving now.”

“No!” His voice sounded less angry than panicked, and gave me pause. “Where would you go, if you did?”

Given that I didn’t know where I was, I couldn’t answer that. 

“Will you come inside?”

“Will you disperse the audience?” I snapped back, and to my surprise, he nodded, a gesture of his hand being all that it took. The oddly-dressed men almost vanished into the night, and it was only the three of us; the tall man at my side was still hovering, as if he feared I might fall. It was a fair concern.

“What else would you have?” The man asked, and I blinked at him. 

“Tell me who you are.”

“I am Kougaiji. Gyumaoh’s son.” When he said it, he raised his chin. “You won’t know me, Sanzo, but I am very glad you’ve come.” 

\---------------

After seeing me dried, clothed, and examined by an overzealous physician who looked like a snake charmer, Kougaiji led me through a winding corridor, his guard in tow, and into a room full of echoes. There he told me his story—twice—and said he understood why I had trouble believing it. None of the other Sanzos had either, until they saw. For the moment it was nighttime, and I saw nothing but the spacious room’s interior, thinking how Sardanapalian everything would be with just a few adjustments—the wealth was, rather, arranged tactfully, as if bashful of its own display. I couldn’t place the style. It looked like Regency and Gothic and Early Byzantine all rolled into one, and there was some strange element, some splash of color of texture that didn’t fit into any category. 

I gathered that it was a throne room, though the chair was less imposing than it could have been, not seated atop a dais, but flat on the floor, level with the couches nearby. It was hemmed in gold, the curling arms studded with faceted jewels, but it didn’t appear exceptionally large or well-polished. The view it commanded was impressive, looking out over the elaborately tiled marble floor that met in the center with dark, gold-brown marquise stones arranged in a sunburst. I was reminded of my father’s books, and the mark of the Argead line expressed on Philip II’s _larnyx_. Was that this Kougaiji’s familial crest?

Tilting my head back, I saw that the ceilings were vaulted, and every surface upon them was painted in vibrant hues without form, depicting only geometric designs. Many of them were the eight-point star, done in mosaics of every color, the centermost, over the mount of a low-hanging candelabrum, being a startling red. Those candles were the only lights in the room, the rosette windows overhead yielding nothing but slivers of silver at this hour.

The walls at eye-level were ornamented with heavy pilasters and curling gold vines that ran about them, tangled at the capital and pedestal both. Between them, hanging over blank goldwash, were a series of portraits, agnates perhaps, with an occasional queen. Some were woven into tapestries, others painted with oils or what looked like watercolors. There was not one of the man who spoke to me, but there was an image of a dark-haired, robed figure who shared similar facial features.

The chair I sat on was one of the only other pieces of furniture in the space, and it smelled strongly of cedar and incense. It vibrated beneath me as my foot tapped the flooring in irritation and perturbation. Also, I was still damp from my trip through the fountain, having only been briskly dried. I wanted a Marlboro. “You’re telling me I’m a priest.”

“You are,” the man insisted, and despite calling himself a prince, he didn’t seem to mind sitting on the backless couch while I propped up in a chair; he was bent forward, his head lower than mine, hair dripping over his lean shoulders. His guard, whom he had addressed as Dokugakuji, paced at a distance, though I knew he listened. “You’re the thirty-first Sanzo. And as I said, it is most unusual for you to arrive now. It’s only once every century—there was a man, dressed not unlike you, who came before I took the crown. I had thought he would come again. He was here, he strengthened the barrier surrounding Ukoku, but now it is being torn.”

“You’re telling me I’m a priest.” I repeated dully, “and that you want me to exorcise a demon?”

“Yes.”  
“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“That is what each one says,” Kougaiji said easily, not anxious in the least about that particular detail. He seemed so grateful, and I wasn’t sure how to convince him that I was most-assuredly not the man he was looking for.

“I don’t even know how I arrived here.” 

“You bear the scar. The healer said so, on your shoulder.”

I prickled. “What scar? That’s not a _scar_ , it’s a mark from the lightning. I just got hit by lightning—a few hours ago, I’m almost positive.” That there had been no repercussions—blindness, agonizing pain—made me think this was all a very vivid hallucination. I’d heard of it happening, if lightning strikes the skull just so. 

“All the Sanzos have it. This is how they travel then, by lightning. It is the gift of the Sky God.” He seemed pleased with the conclusion, and I only stared. “It is why,” he added, “the people say he falls from the sky. We never actually see anyone falling, of course, only the storm that brings them.”

“You’re mad.”

“Hey!” The guard stepped in, one hand at his hip, touching the hilt of a sword I couldn’t possibly date. It had elements ranging from the late Bronze Age to the Revolutionary War, an amalgamation of styles. “You are our priest. But until his father is recovered or killed, Kougaiji is our king.”

“Fine.” I dusted my hands of it. “But you’re both off it, if you think I can magically zap some monster—which don’t exist, by the way—back into his cave.”

“He is not a monster. Not like that, at least,” Kougaiji assured me, one raised hand fending his overqualified valet off. “He was once human. But he has become very powerful, just like you. And he has lured my father. He will raise armies--”

“We went over this,” I reminded him. “If you want to convince me that this isn’t all some sort of drug-induced illusion—and I don’t know that you can—you’re going to have to prove that at least some of what you’re saying holds water.”

Kougaiji looked at me very seriously and nodded, his dark eyes shadowed by the heavy fringe of his bangs. I thought they looked forlorn and very tired. “I can do this.”

The next morning, he did. 

 

\----------------------

 

I was woken with the sun in a guest suite, just as luxurious as the throne room, by a servant and the thick scent of foreign food. It reminded me of my father’s trip to Athens, where everything was cooked in oil and heavy spices. I was unable to do more than poke at it, still mesmerized by the fact that I hadn’t opened my eyes to a green and gray hospital room with my arm and shoulder swathed in bandages. I gave myself up to thought, but only for a short while, afraid to linger too long on present circumstance and risk rending what remained of my sanity completely. There was something to it all though, something familiar and unnamable, like a distantly remembered scent. The body recalls it like a reflex, and sometimes the mind never does. I almost thought I might have dreamed about it once, and while the idea of being transported to the place of a dream was illogical, the concept of currently enduring a coma-induced dream with familiar sights and sounds sat well enough with me. It would have to, until I could find more answers or, more hopefully, wake up.

I dressed when prompted by the returning servant, inspecting the kidskin trousers and green jerkin laid out beneath a heavy belt clasped in gold. I wondered what had become of my jeans and the shredded remnants of the shirt. Even my shoes were gone, replaced with expensive-looking boots and polished buckles. They didn’t look exactly medieval, but more like something an uneducated film director would conceive as pre-Renaissance. The fabric was absurdly rich, smoother than silk and more durable. I was lacing up the fronts of the corset-tight boots when the servant re-entered and bowed.

“Lord Kougaiji wishes to see you at your convenience, Sanzo.” The king had explained to me the night before that he understood Sanzo was not my name, but it was a title that conferred great respect, and all the servants of the palace would use it with me. I remembered the bowing men from dreams, and I took that in stride.

“Okay.” I took my foot from the stool and straightened, rubbing hard at my shoulder; it hurt, and my arm was stiff. For a lightning strike, I still thought that was getting off lightly. 

“He wishes to show you the dragons, Sanzo.”

“Dragons?” My ears pricked. If there were a way to convince me, that might just be it. 

 

 

I was led down winding halls, and I don’t mean that as simply a turn of phrase; the hall literally _wound_ because the wall was built to fit a curve in the natural landscape stories below. Lagging behind the servant’s quick steps, I would pause to look at a statue or painting, surprised at the way art alternated between tapestries, oil, and stone. It seemed the artists of their world had a command of many mediums; even the rugs were plush and neatly woven to form elaborate whorls of golden thread and the sharp points of more eight-pronged stars. 

The ceilings were painted too, tiled around the borders with flinty mosaic and glinting like gems in the sunlight. The servant kept pausing and glancing back to me, but he never appeared impatient, only amused and perhaps flattered by my curiosity. Halfway across the last of the widely spaced rugs, I turned at the sound of a crash and saw a small spindly end table crumble as a blur of color and energy barreled into it, skidded to a halt, and ran barking in the opposite direction. 

_“Sogra!”_ A petulant voice whined, scrambling down another corridor and looking both ways, uncertain of where the dog went. It was a girl, acting perhaps younger than she was, and her face melted into an open smile when she turned to face me. 

“Hey! I know you.” She was a redhead, almost blonde, and bore a mark on her cheek in crimson slashes that looked just like Kougaiji’s. The princess, I assumed. “You’re the priest!” 

“I—yes.” I shrugged, why not? Everyone else seemed to think so. 

“My brother says you’re going to save us after the army goes out. Too bad you came late, though.” 

I remembered the voice, Dokugakuji’s, as he had hauled me up from the water, the hissed accusation. How could I be late when I hadn’t planned on arriving at all?

“And you’re the princess?” I prompted, earning a bright nod. 

“Lirin—my name is Lirin,” she insisted, apparently having forgotten all about her dog and the broken table. I watched her facial reaction as a thought came to fruition, opening up like a blossom. “My big brother said he’s going to show you the dragons, you know. Is that where you’re going now? The last Sanzo really liked them, even though he couldn’t ride,” she babbled, taking my hand in a shockingly strong grip and tugging me off, past the servant who gladly gave me up to her enthusiasm. 

“The stables’re this way. I know who’ll be good for you—Hakuryu is a really nice dragon. My brother’s is more stubborn, and she won’t let anyone else ride her. She’s bright red, but when he got her he said he was very contrary, and once she threw him, so to punish her he named her Porphyra. It means purple—isn’t that silly? Oh!” She must have seen my expression, and waggled her head. “Don’t worry--Hakuryu won’t throw you. Especially if you give him cake.”

“Cake.” I repeated, and she shot me a toothy grin. 

“Well _yeah_. That’s what dragons love!”

“Of course.” 

I hardly caught a glimpse of the thick gardens and arbors we passed through on the way to the stables, but I knew we were close by the scent. Dragons are not like horses—they’re more fastidiously clean—but they have their own unique odors, and the entire building smelled like a smokehouse. It rose straight up like a cliff’s edge, large because it had to be, I’d think, to house such animals, and was made of a thick granite to keep the cool in and the sun out. The roof was domed like a mosque, and a weathervane shaped like a twisting serpent sat atop it.

With one last great tug that threatened to detach my arm, Lirin sprang forward and sprinted across the stretch of green and clover blossoms, flinging herself at Kougaiji, who staggered back before catching himself and slipping his arms about her in a reciprocal hug. He smiled, a little.

“Sanzo.” Dokugakuji greeted me with a nod. “I see you’ve met the princess.”

“Yes. You can call me Samuel, you know.” 

Dokugakuji shook his head, and Lirin, already reaching for a great tether nailed to the outside wall, almost toppled from her precarious position on a splintering ladder. 

“What’s a Samuel?” 

“Me. I am. That’s my name, I mean. Where I come from.” 

Kougaiji led me in with a gesture, his eyes almost glowing in the sudden gloom; Dokugakuji kept to his shoulder while the princess scampered off ahead, her feet quiet on the packed dirt floor. 

“Hakuryu!” 

At first I saw nothing, and then, with a blink, it was there. I’d only ever seen drawings before, and the creature didn’t look as I had conceptualized it. It was tall and very broad, bigger than the largest horse, but not quite the size of an elephant. The skin covering it—my god, those were _scales_ —shone bright white like nacre, only its eyes glowed red, the same hue as Kougaiji’s hair. At its side, folded neatly and lined with veins and tendons like a bat’s, were wings. They were almost translucent, and I couldn’t judge how massive while they were contracted, but even in that state were clearly larger than a tent.

The creature’s face, turned downward almost like a beak, twisted in an expression of disdain that I had seen on horses before; when it snorted, smoke puffed out. I stepped back.

“Oh, don’t be scared of him!” Lirin teased, giving him a pat and, from one wide trouser pocket, a paper-wrapped piece of cake, which the creature ate in a single bite, head-butting her gently. “He’s a good one. Hakkai trained him from an egg.”

I was still staring at the smoke. “Can he breathe fire?”

“Not at his age,” Hakkai chimed in, “Very, very few can, and never for a long duration. Please don’t look so nervous—I assure you no one has ever been scorched.” He chuckled at my still-wary expression. 

“You should learn to ride,” Kougaiji advised me, one eye on his guard, who was drawing out several other beasts of varying hues, ostensibly for them to mount. “It would be much easier for you to travel this way. If we had enough to issue to all the men, we wouldn’t need to have boats.”

“I’ll…give it a try.” I approached the creature warily—how else are you supposed to approach something that you spent your life believing to be a myth?—and ran my fingers over the scales, surprised to find them temperate, rather than slick and chilly. They felt like a serpent’s back, and the creature permitted the tentative petting, snorting out steam and watching me with softened pink eyes. It was an elegant animal, fiercely proud, to judge by the tilt of its head, and intelligent. I felt that it was sneering at my awe.

“Hakkai will find you a saddle,” Kougaiji said, rising up onto his own without, using the scales like ledges and digging the toes of his shoes into the great crimson beast’s side. He saw my gaze and shook his head with a little smile. “It doesn’t hurt them; those are like iron plates, and they are much stronger than we are. Only their mouths are unarmored, and those,” he gestured to Hakuryu, who was yawning and baring a fiercely glinting row of ivory teeth, “are well guarded.” 

The man called Hakkai appeared and gave me a neat bow, leather straps and a thin fold of saddle tucked under his arm. He was slight of frame and tall, one eye was terribly expressive and the other gleamed too brightly to be real. I wondered if he’d lost it handling dragons.

“Hakuryu won’t drop you, Sanzo,” he promised. “He’s very well-trained.” It was Hakkai’s turn to receive a headbutt, and he patted the blunt horns atop the lizard’s head. “Perhaps I should say he is well-behaved and has _me_ well-trained.” 

When Hakuryu made a sound of assent, I stared. “They can understand us?”

Hakkai stared right back. “Of course. Why shouldn’t they? Hakuryu was raised here, and knows only our tongue.”

He unfurled the saddle, such a thin bit of leather that I doubted it would do much more than provide me with enough friction to avoid slipping from the scales. Perhaps that was its only function. It was smooth, well-worked leather, and there was an insignia on it in the letters of their writing system that I could not read. Below the print, the crimson cut of a sparrow’s silhouette decorated the piece. Hakkai was fastening it the way one would a saddle about a horse.

“As I recall, your predecessor was not the most coordinated of riders, but he had a way with them, and no one let him fall.” 

Hakkai helped me up, urging me to dig my feet in and not insult Hakuryu by thinking him weak. Insulting the near elephant-sized dinosaur beneath me was the last thing I wanted, and I gave him a pat to insure against hard feelings. 

Seated, I found quickly why the saddle was so thin; there was no need of comfort, and unlike a horse, I couldn’t feel a bone beneath me, only soft, undulating scales and muscle. The arch of his back almost conformed to the curves of my thighs, facilitating balance. When he walked out, I grasped instinctively for the reins only to find that there were none, and I did not need them. His pace was smooth, almost gliding, and I glanced down with a wary nod to Hakkai. 

“A natural!” He called back, “Only tell him when you want to land.”

“Alright but how do I--” My words were cut off as the tent-like appendages unfolded, snapping out to an insanely impressive width, enough to fill my bedchambers several times over, and propelled us upward in a strong gust of wind. I clung fast to flesh beneath my hands, hoping Hakkai was right and my fingers didn’t pinch past the scales, because the last thing I needed was to get bucked off at a hundred feet in the air. 

We didn’t go very high, and whether that was because dragons were trained to carry humans low, for battle and transport, or because, like horses, Hakuryu sensed my rising nerves, I don’t know. But he carried me out quickly, before I could say no, and soon the grass and shards of rock below became a messed blur of hues studded with occasional streaks of dirt and wheat.

The wind was like ice at that speed, and smelled strongly of conifers and wet bracken as we neared the green thicket of a forest, arching overtop it and stirring the trees. The others were far behind now, and I wasn’t as afraid as I should have been. But it was a dream, after all, and why bother pinching myself at the best part?

We weren’t going so fast that I was unable to see the villages along the way. Everything in this country reminded me of a medieval settlement: wood and stone housing, messily plotted farmland, communal herding grounds. But there was something so out of place, so ahistoric about it, that it seemed wholly unique, removed from the rules my own world seemed subject to. 

The chronologically linear concept of architecture’s evolution didn’t apply here; I saw elements of classic style mixed with gothic, and there was one stable, packed with goats and chickens, that looked suspiciously Victorian. No spires dotted the skies, but columned temples veiled in incense smoke rose up on the horizons. Shepherds prodded their charges, and a man pulling a wheelbarrow, who must have been used to the king’s taking his dragons out, bobbed his head in a nod and took me for a groom as we swept by. There was a woman at a public well with a baby on her back and a gaggle of children at her sides, and they stopped tugging her skirts just long enough to watch us pass. They were dressed strangely too, skirts and cloaks of simple make but in bright, vibrant hues; even the ones who appeared to live in simple homes dressed in scarlet and gold, apparently colors that were not reserved exclusively for the king. No wonder Kougaiji’s men had stared at me, sopping wet in jeans upon my arrival, when even their peasants were well-clad. 

I asked Hakuryu, “Could we see the capital?” 

He opened his mouth and made the long line of his throat and back vibrate in answer, a call that sounded like the sort of noise a dinosaur might make, and suddenly we were turning, careening to the side and into the wind so that I clung tightly to the ridges of his scales, wishing there were reins after all. He snorted—amusement, perhaps?—and I saw steam rise from his face as he gradually righted himself, body snapping here and there with the wind, controlling it. The castle loomed very near below, and Hakuryu dipped down so that we almost circled a black peak, ruffling the elliptical shingles there so that they rose with the breeze of his movement. 

From such a height, I could see how the capital city was laid out as if with a blueprint, each section made of small circles, all individually walled with two or three gates a piece, some overgrown with flowery hedges, others meticulously kept. They were like city blocks, but obviously had sprung up of their own accord over time, rather than having been planned in one generation. They fell haphazardly over the terrain, and I noted that the fortified castle sat atop a crag, and the land sloped out from beneath it gradually; all of the circular partitions housing private property and public garden spaces, bakeries and brothels, dotted the downward gradient. 

Despite the variation in size and location and distance among different clusters of buildings—there were plenty strung out in the between areas, too—it seemed still somewhat orderly, not quite as mismatched and chaotic as a European city. The roads, for instance, were plenty wide, and the buildings didn’t overhang the streets and cast them into shadow. No muck flowed on either side, from what I could see when we swooped down low. 

Many of the mud and brick homes were smoothed on their sides and painted fair colors to keep the sun off while avoiding the dull monotony of whitewash. Windows were open, shutters flung wide or, occasionally, glass panes raised up; a device that let them slide reminded me of a modern window except that they lacked a screen. What they had hanging from them weren’t quite flower boxes, but cornucopia-shaped hangers filled with dried grass and dirt and heavy, blossoming flowers. Hakuryu was unable, because of his wingspan, to drop down low enough to touch the rooftops, but I could tell that while a few were made of thatch, most were heavy terracotta shingles, cylindrical like homes in Antiquity. 

A few people who saw us waved or shook their wares at us, but most paid no heed; maybe they were used to seeing dragons overhead. Back home, no one other than children noted a plane gliding overhead; perhaps this was not so different. 

Hakuryu took us as far as what must have been considered the suburbs, far beyond the rocky rise of land atop which sat the castle. Everything there was flat, farmland of varying colors depending upon what grew, and whether a field lay fallow. There were people dotting the fields and farmsteads that grew farther and farther apart as we distanced ourselves from the snug quarters of the city. I could see, in the distance, another village or small city, made of many ringed walls and painted roofed buildings, but on a more modest scale. We didn’t fly to it, but Hakuryu took a sharp right, nearly throwing me a second time, and emitted a sort of clicking noise as if to say, “Have you seen enough now?” I grunted my assent and held on with knuckles whiter than his scales, watching homes and dirt roads turn into trees and wildflowers, and finally just thorny grass as we approached the wilds again. 

We circled the forest for another few minutes, rising and dipping on the wind. I said, “It’s marvelous,” and Hakuryu warbled at me octaves higher than before, a sound of approval, and he picked up altitude and speed on the way back. I saw Kougaiji in the distance, riding with Dokugakuji, and Lirin was still at the stable entrance, speaking with Hakkai and holding in her hands another piece of the fluffy white pastry she’d fed Hakuryu with. She gestured to me and said something to him that evoked a thoughtful expression, and suddenly Kougaiji was riding alongside me, sitting upright atop his own mount’s back, the wind buffeting his hair behind him in a smear of red. 

“You learn quickly!” He called over the wind, allowing a smile to peek through. I hardly knew him, and already I could tell that was a rare enough thing. For such a young man—he was young, wasn’t he?—he took himself seriously. I didn’t think it was circumstance that made him that way, and would wager he had done much the same before his father’s betrayal. I was no historian, but I’d had enough exposure to it through my father’s archaeological work to know that nobility did travel through the blood. I’d only thought that brand of it had been snuffed out with the end of Antiquity, and here it was again in some alternate reality, like a link between words. People—he had claws and magic, did that make him people, or something else entirely?—were the same here, too. 

Halting the dragon, who hovered at his behest, he spoke again. “Do you believe now, Sanzo?”

“I can’t say that I don’t know it’s not a dream.”

The king nodded, one single, sharp movement of acceptance. “You will.” He sounded determined. “There are things I would show you, when we return.” 

I nodded, and the forest loomed closer; Hakuryu let Kougaiji’s scarlet dragon take the lead by a few feet, and I watched his cloak, a startling ivory hemmed in heavy gold, snap out like a flag behind him. There was a scarlet sparrow on it, rather than the eight-pointed star I’d seen throughout the palace, just like the saddle. Perhaps that was a personal emblem.

His back was ramrod straight as we flew, body like a keen blade, manipulating the creature beneath him so that he had no need to shout commands or cling to a saddle. His eyes, quite red in broad daylight, occasionally scraped over me physically, and I wondered if he was sizing me up. From what I could gather, the sort of priest they took me for was second only to royalty in Erythros. Was that why he spoke to me so willingly, why he inclined his head or risked a smile? 

“Would you race, priest?” Dokugakuji’s dragon, jet black and somewhat larger than the others, swooped down from overhead. Kougaiji’s red eyes alighted on him and didn’t budge, though his face softened with interest at the offer. I saw the king was intent on it, and a look passed between them that I couldn’t read. 

“Alright. Where to?”

He gestured to the distant loop I had already rounded, the neat point of the forest’s edge, whittled away from years of nibbling deer and logging. 

“There and back, no scorching the earth,” Dokugakuji stipulated with a grin, and I gave Hakuryu’s scales a light tap of encouragement. 

“You’re on.”

“What?” He looked confused, but then Kougaiji called out, and we flew. Hakuryu was not confused, and already he had his sharp eyes set on Doku’s marker, intent on a victory. I could barely hang on, forced to bend down and forward, aligning myself with the wind so that it would gust over my head and back instead of into my face. I passed Kougaiji on the right, or rather, Hakuryu did, but Dokugakuji was already sweeping down and making the turn, cutting easily through the air and passing me with a holler. For some reason, my partner didn’t take kindly to that, and the swift, low-throated grumble ought to have been warning enough. I nearly tumbled right off of his tail when we dipped into the sudden turn, and my arm grazed the trunk of a pine, collecting a fine line of sap on the sleeve as Hakuryu streamlined his body and darted forward, tailing Dokugakuji’s dragon and overtaking him at the last moment. 

When we landed, we hit the ground hard, almost gliding across it, and as clawed toenails sunk into the dirt, I flew forward and off with a grunt, tumbling twice on hard-packed ground before coming to a standstill, chest heaving, at Lirin’s feet. She was howling in laughter.

“Sanzo you did just like the other one!” 

“What. Other.” I groaned and dusted grass from my hair, watching worked leather boots thump against the ground as the king and his guard dismounted, both looking suitably amused, though the latter hid it better than the former. 

“Th’other Sanzo. Before. Brother told me he couldn’t hardly stay on—kept flopping off. Even with a saddle!” She was feeding Hakuryu the cake now, which he took gladly, tail flicking at the tip like a dog’s. 

Dokugakuji dragged me up, hard hands dusting at my cloak with a smirk. “Not bad. I’m surprised you were able to hang on.”

“I’m not!” Hakkai protested. “Hakuryu is an excellent driver. You two make a fine pair,” he insisted, coddling the creature so that it purred and nuzzled him affectionately before submitting to be taken back inside the stables. 

“That was impressive,” Kougaiji allowed, handing over his own dragon to another groom. 

I was still clouded in mud and dust, and Lirin was helpfully plucking straw from the folds of the tunic. It looked like a professor’s cowl in the back, and was teeming with evidence of my tumble. “So what do I win?”

“What do you want?” His face was too open for it to be a joke.

“I could really go for a cigarette.”

He looked confused. “Is this a food?”

“No, a—nevermind.” I shook my head with a little smile, “I—forgot.” 

Lirin caught up to us as we walked, wide eyes peering through a tangle of red-blond bangs. “Have you seen the scroll yet?”

I shook my head; Kougaiji had explained it the night before only in brief.

“I wanna see it when you do.”

“No.” The king frowned. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t have you in the room.”

“Brother!” She snapped irritably, fisting small hands but refusing further argument; she seemed aware that he would brook none, and wasn’t about to budge. He’d said as much to me, that no one was to enter the central treasury where it was housed without specific reason. 

“The scroll is dangerous to handle?” I prompted, not having heard these particular details.

“Yes. My ancestor, Seu-Ssydo, had a son who was blinded by it, and partially paralyzed.”

“For _touching_ it?” I gaped, suddenly far less willing to set eyes on the thing. 

“Yes.” Kougaiji nodded. “I will stand at the door.”

“You do that. I’m not going near it,” I warned, and he was already shaking his head again.

“You must. It won’t harm you—it’s meant to be wielded by a priest. The effects, I’m told, are not distressing, to your sort.” 

He paused in thought. “I think in fact I have a written record of it somewhere. Your predecessor saw fit to keep a journal. He tried to put the words on it into his own language, but left before he could finish. He said it was a great power—like living inside a storm-cloud, with it draped over his shoulders. I will show you this,” the king assured me, “before you don it.”

“I’m not making any promises,” I grudged, already working out a way to make him see how I was not the guy he had been expecting. I hadn’t even come at the right time, had I? The full moon had passed; I’d missed my chance; Dokugakuji had said it himself. Clearly they were waiting on someone else. 

 

 

Kougaiji took me to a large library, the entire room a grand circle with bookshelves and wall pockets packed with scrolls, interrupted only by tall, narrow windows. Ladders were propped in several corners, teak and shiny. He invited me to look where I would, but aside from trotting the circumference, I only waited for him to rifle through a desk, bringing up scraps of paper that looked newer than most on the shelves. 

“Here it is.” He drew these from a cedar box engraved with his crest, handling them cautiously before turning them over to me. “It is good that you should read them, the memoirs of your forerunner. I am the first king to see two of your kind in his lifetime. There was a time when we thought…”

As I skimmed the pages, his voice slipped in and out, fading into the background. My fingers tightened about the crinkled edges, reading the words without comprehending them.

_Feather-light, the parchment tugged at my shoulders with great weight, and I felt as though I wore armor. It is charged, although not a conductor, and walking with it is like traveling in the center of a great storm cell, with lightning always at your fingertips. It’s no wonder they find it sacred, commanding such power._

There was more, pages of it, torn from a notebook and written in my tongue, but I couldn’t read them. The dips and spikes of ink blurred, and I felt my chest tighten. The king’s hand brushed my shoulder, and I think he asked me something, but his voice sounded hollow and far away. I couldn’t stop staring at the text, even when it started to shake in my hands, becoming illegible. I wasn’t dreaming, after all. And that was my father’s hand. 

“This man,” I breathed, and Kougaiji inclined his head. 

“Your predecessor, yes. Is it that you recognize his--”

“What was his name.”

“We addressed him by his title--”

“I told you my name,” I barked out, clutching hard at the edges of the page, wanting to press them to my face and see if I couldn’t catch the residual scent of his soap, the ghost of his hand on papyrus. “He would have done the same.”

“Kenneth.” He pronounced it poorly, like _kien-yet_ , but I knew it. 

“Oh God. You said _years_ ago. You have fucking dragons—don’t you live forever? How many years is _years ago_?” I demanded, and Kougaiji looked taken aback by the sudden anger; he had told me everything of himself, and I had offered up nothing. 

“Three. Three years ago, when my father still ruled.” 

I was white—it’s bad, when you can _feel_ your color draining away. He shoved a chair against the backs of my knees just in time and plucked free the paper from my hands, placing it within reach when he saw my panicked gaze at its removal. 

“There was a time,” he murmured, “when we thought the gift was hereditary. Because men did not come but once a century, and none knew themselves priests before they arrived, there was no way to confirm this. Familial resemblance is too subjective, though you do look remarkably similar. Forgive me, but I couldn’t have known for certain. Your ignorance of your whereabouts branded you a total stranger, not the son of a past guest.”

“He might have told me of it,” I croaked. “But I didn’t see him. Not since he disappeared. Not since three years ago.” Was it here? Was it _here_ he’d gone, vanishing into lightning and air and appearing to soothsay and charm monsters in castles? 

“You mean to say he is not returned?”

I lashed about in the chair to face him, seeing nothing but genuine surprise on his eyes. “No. Is he here? He has to be here.” I was talking more to myself than to him, stretching my mind over the possibilities. It was his unfinished work that led me to this place, and my dreams of him that told me what to expect. “When did he leave?”

“He is not. He left after the moon passed—I haven’t seen him in three years either, Sanzo. I don’t know where they go when they return, but we had always assumed their passage was a safe one. They had sons.”

I was shaking my head hard, unable to reconcile the idea that my father might be here still, in Erythros, and if he was how did I find him, and why didn’t Kougaiji know? Fury built, one part sorrow and one part exhaustion. I couldn’t do this again, but how couldn’t I? Already it had been so much; did I have the strength, the emotional reserves, to go through it again, knowing full well I might not find him, he might be lost to both worlds, or between them? Hope sprang up in my throat like heat and died just as quickly, leaving a bitter streak the length of my chest that burned. I pictured grimy tar littering my insides, so much broken down expectation and blackened hope. Heavy with a sudden exhaustion, I felt his eyes on me still.

“They told me he was dead,” I said. “I searched for him for a year after he disappeared. And then I searched his work. I was doing that when the lightning struck, following a map in his notes.” I remembered the scroll he had clutched, and the clod of dirt in my hand. I had been following a dream. Could people remember other dreams within their dreams? Did that mean I was most certainly conscious now? Accepting the less convenient truth, I made myself acknowledge the reality of this place for the time being. It was the only way to function within it. 

“I’m sorry. I cannot…I know nothing of him. I thought the lightning must have taken him back. I cannot imagine where else he might have gone.”

“Are there infinite planes? Thousands of worlds like this one, ours being only two of them? Would he have gone there—to the others?” Even I thought I sounded mad, but the king only blinked at me.

“I don’t know this. But I do know if he were here, he would have come to me for aid, being unable to go home. He’d spoken of you. Not by name, but he’d said he had a son. When he told me what he did, studying fallen worlds, he said he had a son who studied the languages of these worlds. That was why he passed so much time writing down ours, I suppose. To bring it back to you in his head.”

I shook my head at the unfairly sentimental tone of his speech; he was too sorrowful to be useless, and I had no one to rail against. “Why are you so sad? You knew him only a month,” I accused, gaining no reproach in turn.

“I know. But he was my guest, and while he was here, he was one of my people. I wish very much to have been able to help him. It’s unkind, for a father to be torn from you, especially one so loved.” I remembered what he had said in brief, about Gyumaoh’s defection—no, those were Dokugakuji’s words; Kougaiji had insisted he was enthralled—and thought that he might know something of the hurt. I still couldn’t help but hate him; he was the last one to see my father alive, and I, his son, had to come to this foreign king for memories. I asked anyway.

“Tell me of him. What he did while he was here.”

Kougaiji did. He explained his arrival came with a storm on the full moon night of the festival in June, three years ago. He hadn’t known himself a priest, but absorbed the information, the legend, the alien surroundings and culture, and then he had accepted the duty of strengthening Ukoku’s seals. 

“My father escorted him to Melorodon. Perhaps it was there that he was first ensnared by Ukoku; it is unwise for anyone but a Sanzo priest to…” He shook his head. “He reinforced the wards and blessed the people. He said it was a joy to him to live in such an otherworldly land when his line of work usually only permitted him to read about them and pry them from the ground. My father liked him very much; he brought an early harvest and dissolved a fever running rampant in the capital. He was very unafraid, the least confused of any I’d heard of.” Kougaiji almost smiled a little, “Less than you. He told us of his world—yours—a little bit, but none of matched what we have on record from other Sanzos. I suppose your home must change much more quickly than does ours, though I believe we age the same. He spoke of a son. I never inquired far; because of the usual way of things, I never believed I would come to meet you. Is it,” he said after a pause, “That you think he’s still here?”

“I don’t know,” I had to admit. “Two days ago I didn’t even know there was a ‘here.’ I thought he was…dead, maybe. Missing—someone I would never see again.”

“A Sanzo is very powerful.” Kougaiji said. “Perhaps, through that, you may find something. But. A king is also very powerful. I will send out a search; if he is here, if he is in Erythros, we will find him.”

I thanked him quietly, something itching in my chest and telling me it would result in nothing. Despite that, I couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that he _wasn’t_ here. Reaching out, I touched the notes again, the paper crinkling under my hand, and thought I could almost hear him speaking the words. He didn’t write any more formally than he spoke; his colleagues called him the bard in jest. No wonder Kougaiji had been so impressed by him, and so skeptical of my being his son. I smiled a little.

“Do you have anything else of his?” 

“Yes.” The king nodded. “The sutra.” 

 

 

The sutra was kept in the center vault of the treasury; we passed only one guard, and the Sanzo called Samuel expressed surprise at this.

“How come you only have one man to look after all of this?” It was admittedly an impressive collection, the metal heart of the nation mined, sculpted, and polished in the form of furniture and baubles and solid ore. The treasury funded everything from roads to the reconstruction of public buildings destroyed in storms. We used it to mint coins and make gifts to tribal leaders who brought forth men from their oligarchies to serve in our armies. Sometimes we left them as offerings on the shores of Glaukia. The dead must be appeased, too.

There were many reasons I posted only one guard, the most obvious being the fortified state of the castle as a whole, and of course my own presence. Very few were stronger than me, and none were stronger than who I would become. “One man has always been enough.”

“I thought you would have, you know, dragons or something.” He said. “In the stories, dragons always guard the treasure.”

I couldn’t help but snort my amusement at this; what stories did he read? “I don’t know any dragon who would take it upon himself to guard a room full of anything, unless perhaps it were cake. You seem unsettled by this, who, do you think, would even take it?”

It was Sanzo’s turn to appear amused, “I don’t know. Greedy priests, underpaid soldiers, scheming viziers? Aren’t you ever worried about someone storming the Bastille?” 

I tried not to look too shocked at the suggestion; what world did he come from, where people did this to their own capitol? Instead I expressed confusion at the reference. 

“Storming a Bastille? What is this?”

“It’s a phrase—nevermind. I meant, aren’t you worried about an uprising, the impoverished rallying against you and emptying your horde?”

I smiled—ah, there was the difference, then. “Why would they waste such effort to take what is already theirs? And my people are not impoverished, Sanzo.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s theirs.”

“Well it certainly isn’t mine. It is held in common by the people, but because of its physical nature, I cannot very easily deal it out among each one. Anything the wealth is used for is for their benefit.” 

He _hmm_ ed and sounded unconvinced, but fell quiet as we passed through the long corridor toward the wide doors of the center; I could see him trying not to look agog at the glitter, hands slid deep into his pockets. I was impressed by it once too, as a child, when everything seems bigger and brighter. Coin was kept in cedar chests, mostly, but heavy gold urns, statues, ceremonial armor, and furniture were laid out. Rugs were on the floors and walls to avoid providing moths with hiding places, and ivory and ebony carvings, from staffs to foot stools, were nudged to the wall where the room was coolest, to avoid warping. There were weapons, but they were purely decorative; the armory was a different sort of treasury altogether, and located nearer the barracks. 

There were amphorae of foreign jewels, gifts from far-flung colonies that were almost separate nations, although residing, technically, on the southern coasts of Erythros. Costly gifts that could not keep, like spices or foodstuffs, or things that it would be foolish to waste, like clothing and rich tapestries, were turned into prizes at annual games, given to the victors of contests that were open to all. I awarded them, and it was always a great pleasure to throw heavy silk around the sun-wrinkled shoulders of a farmer and watch him stand straight for it, not undone by the soft threads, or humbled. Our people are innately noble, none of them subservient. When they bowed, it was a thing of formality and tradition, and prize-winners were never asked to. 

I took him into the vault’s antechamber, pausing before the bronze-wrapped doors. I had never gone further than this, and said as much to him. 

“Only my father the king has ever stepped into this part of the treasury. I have told you,” I said tentatively, remembering his initial response, “of my ancestor.”

I pushed open the doors—they were never locked; the sutra had its own clever defense system. 

When they eased apart, their hinges too well-oiled to squeal despite infrequent use, a wash of cooler air and the heavy scent of myrrh and sandalwood poured out over us. The space was interior and completely dark, but lined with wall torches, kindle-dry, and I lit them with a pinch of my fingers, watching Sanzo’s eyes as they watched me.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I told you I am a mage.” 

With the space lit, it became evident that the walls were lined with shelves, many of them empty, but those that were not lined with books and scrolls and leather-wrapped boxes that smelled of age and dried herbs. There was an octagonal wooden pedestal carved with raised, dancing frescoes at the base that held the box. I kept well away from it while Sanzo wandered the room, exploring only with my gaze. 

“All these scrolls.” He gestured, “Are they your histories?”

“No. Those are in the library. These are a magician’s scrolls.” I had read many of them in my training; my father brought them out. “They’re ancestral treasures, the only thing in here that is truly mine.”

He made a thoughtful sound and steered round the pedestal table, looking curiously at the silver casket atop it. It was inlaid with gold writing in our own system, so stylized that I could hardly make it out. Rubies had been faceted and cut into tapered baguettes down the sides, set tight with prongs of solid sterling. 

“Fancy box.” 

“Real treasure should be beautifully ensconced, don’t you think?”

“My father saw all this?” He murmured, his hand near but not touching the coffer. I nodded, but I don’t think he saw me, watching his reflection in untarnished silver, perhaps trying to imagine his father’s eyes peering back at him. 

“That chest there.” I nodded to it, behind him, but didn’t advance much past the threshold. “Is also yours now.” I gestured that he should open it, and he paused, giving me a wary look.

“I don’t want something flying out at me.”

“I don’t either,” I agreed, and he opened the lid that slid apart with a sigh, revealing a neat puddle of ivory and gold linen, trimmed in sage. He held it forth curiously, and no dust fell from it. The smell of the cloth was strong and sweet, like incense and lilac, even though I knew it had been untouched for three years. 

“Every Sanzo has worn that, since the first one.”

“What, the same robes?” He pressed the collar to his face and frowned, a knowing expression flitting through his eyes.

“They are enchanted. They won’t wear, and they don’t stain.” 

I was as interested as he, and when he bent to draw out the breastplate, a light, well-worked and fragile looking thing of hammered and polished metal, I found myself leaning forward too. 

“Is that--”

“It’s gold,” I affirmed, “And decorative. The scroll is your real shield.”

There was a crown too, almost a hand in height, and mightily heavy. Tiny hooks on the back attached it to a gauzy film of a veil, the finest silk, and I saw his fingers glance across the top without pressing down. 

“I’ll take them to your rooms.” He moved to hand over the small bundle, but then stilled my hand and said, “Wait.” I saw he was still looking at the casket, and resisted the urge to leave him. I didn’t know enough of the business to be sure of whether I should be there at all when he donned it. It seemed a sacred thing, and my father had never spoken of it specifically. 

“You said my father wore it.”

“Yes. I saw it on him.” 

That was enough for him; he reached forward and nudged the top of the coffer open, tipping it back so that I could see the fine hammered silver of the lid’s underside gleaming, untarnished in the torchlight, though no one ever came in to polish it. I held the sweet-scented linen in the cradle of my arms to keep it from wrinkling and took an unconscious step back as he drew the roll of papyrus out, one gilded edge clinking against the box. I heard an intake of breath.

“I guess it wouldn’t be fitting if I hadn’t dreamed of this.”

“Did you?”

It unfurled with a crackle of energy that sparked in the dim room like static under sheets, and I saw briefly the markings upon it, spell words in inky, unfading black. The calligraphy was antiquated and hardly legible even to a trained eye. In his hands, it was mere paper, crackling and yielding to the touch, but the moment he draped it over his shoulders, the air in the room split with a sharp clap of thunder and light tore at his side in bursts, making the tiny space blindingly bright. I brought an arm over my eyes as they watered and heard Sanzo give a startled shout before the snapping hiss of active electricity muffled it. I thought it sounded like a writhing serpent, pouring into him and slithering about beneath his skin, filling him with power. 

That white glow pulsed for almost a minute, and the one time I attempted to lift back the guard of my bent arm, the flash sent a searing pain through the upper half of my skull and turned my eyes dry as hotplates; it was not my place to see. Keeping my head bowed, my eyes averted and well-covered, I knew when the skittering dance of light ended only by the drop in temperature and the calming sound of Sanzo’s breathing, the noise of his clothing against the shelves as he leaned back. It was so quiet I could hear his hair dusting the crinkled paper edges of the sutra, and blinking hard, I looked.

His eyes were wide, and smoke rose from the side of his shoulder where he’d taken the burn mark; it was smoldering, and the clothing there had been completely burned away. His skin, though red and raised as it had been upon his arrival, looked no worse for wear. The sutra was immaculate, its edges still twitching in a wind we couldn’t feel. 

“Are you…”

“I can’t describe it,” he said tersely. If he was panicked, he hid it well. The man looked hardly stirred, despite the smoke rising off of his body. I knew he was well when he gave me that wry smile, “At least I know I’m not dreaming.”

 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well for some reason my italics aren't working for the last portion of the chapter. Starting with "I was fifteen when" and the dream sequence, everything is supposed to be in italics. Alas.   
> Let me know what you think otherwise please :D and I will be most grateful.

For the ensuing week and a half or so, we waited for the moon to grow full with the impatience of children and the desperation of adults. I prepared new orders for the standing army; we had a timetable to work with now, and our circumstances were less desperate. Sending out a call for men from various fiefs, I left it to the lords of each region to gather their recruits, supply them, and march them to the palace for outfitting. Some arrived armed or mounted, a testament to the wealth of their dominion. 

I convened the Assembly, and the change from our last meeting was noticeable. They sat up straighter, breathed more easily, and everyone was flickering with hope. Ukoku was not yet unleashed, and we had a Sanzo; the gods had come through for us again. Rotsen spoke a great deal, tiring even the hardiest out rather quickly, but he praised my father endlessly, and I would have listened to him all night. I believe he did this for my sake, perhaps sensing my fear, now that we were so close to unraveling the truth of it, to finding out the extent of my father’s involvement. 

Men volunteered all around the table to lead reconnaissance troops, but I had plans in mind and thanked them, promising more news to come. Dokugakuji looked as if he knew already what was to happen, being captain of the Companions, and Yaone threw a worried glance at him that confused me on the surface and unnerved me further down. I buried it.

Meanwhile Samuel became slowly acquainted with our way of life, something he kept calling “medieval,” though I could not discern whether this was praise or insult. I took him personally on a tour throughout the better part of the palace, showing him the rooms of import, and I reminded him that this was his home now, too. He seemed discomfited by the notion, so I didn’t repeat it, but made it known to him that he was very welcome. 

We passed through the drawing room my mother once used; it would be Lirin’s one day, but was off limits until she grew older or less rambunctious. We saw the solarium, and he seemed fascinated by the abundance of plants, several baccate bushes were foreign to him, and he asked if they were nightshade. There were many empty spaces, I realized, trying to see my home through his eyes. Long corridors hung with pictures and studded in mosaics, but mostly devoid of furniture. The ballroom was nothing but tile and gilt hedged with chairs. Since it was not habitually in use, we kept it closed through most of the year, only opening the large windows to let the air circulate. Samuel walked a diagonal through it, remarking kindly on the mosaic work overhead, and the pebble tiling near the unadorned dais. He said it looked Minoan, another word I didn’t know, but this one I could tell was praise.

Individual chambers were private, but he’d seen his own, and knew the layout. He knew where mine were, directly above the study and office, and must have figured out Lirin’s by the occasion thudding from overhead as she roughhoused with a yipping Sogra. He said they were lavish, the size of his entire apartment in his world, with ceilings twice as high. I told him his room once belonged to my great uncle as a child; he was the third-born, and an avid collector of birds. The thought of a room hung with cages seemed to unnerve him, and when he asked what had become of them, I shrugged. 

“He had an aviary installed; it’s part of the atrium now. They fly very freely.”

I might have shown him to that space too, but we were short on time, and there were those he needed to meet. Priests, who dwelled mostly within the apartments over the sanctuary in the East wing, were eager to meet him, and perhaps a little distrustful because of his timing, which I resented. He had come to rescue us, had they not made sacrifices asking for just such a thing? 

Samuel was not impressed by our pantheon, and he took in stride the illustrative frescoes and statues lining the walls of the sanctuary. I asked if his own people had such things, and he said they used to, a long time ago, but now everyone liked to worship one god. 

“That’s--” I didn’t know how to reply without being rude, and substituted a clearly false, “intriguing” that made the priest laugh.

“That’s a kind way to put it. I think they just got tired of having to recite so many names before listing their demands. Not as many statues to maintain, either.”

“What a shame.” 

The other priests bowed to him and were appropriately respectful, and I could tell he still wasn’t used to that by the way he stepped back very quickly, as if expecting they would scramble up as though from a fall. Once I reached out to brush my hand against his shoulder and nudge him back into place, indicating he should receive the obeisance, and he shot me an aggravated expression, but did so.

“No one bows to me at home, obviously. In fact, in my country, no one bows to anyone, except maybe to be facetious.”  
“You will have to get used to it then,” I said not unkindly, and made sure, throughout the following days, that he did. It wouldn’t do for the people to see an uncertain Sanzo; they expected nobility in their leaders, and that was why they bowed to them. He had it in abundance and seemed not to realize it. His face is very fine, and his eyes, often bored-looking, could turn sharp in a heartbeat, keen enough to parse through misguiding words. He carried himself very well, like a child trained with a backboard who never quite lost that perfect posture. And he was handsome. It helped, I think, when the inside and outside matched in a person, and made them more convincing. When I told him as much, he turned red and denied it, then asked that I not say it again. His people must be very sensitive, or else I had overstepped some cultural boundary I wasn’t aware of. His father, as I remember him, was not at all the same.

On the tenth day of his stay, I suggested he dress in the traditional garments, if it suited him. Had I not been so busy making arrangements for the troops, I probably would have mentioned it earlier. People in the palace knew who he was by now, but I thought he might want to wear the robes of his father, and it certainly couldn’t hurt his standing among the other priests. He had been wearing the sutra all along, and I expressed curiosity over it, only having seen it on his father, of course. 

Samuel kept it under his shirt, hidden and pressed close to his skin, but in his chambers, he let me look it over, though still I refused to touch it. No one had ever touched it. 

“You should wear the robes too.” I reminded him, glancing to where they lay on the bed, a pristine white cut-out over plush sheets, and the streak of a cyclamen-colored velvet belt studded with bullion brads. The golden breastplate lay beside it, and overtop, the glowing crown and spider web veil. 

He obliged me and changed into them; I kept my back to him, eyes at the window. The left flank of my troops, all garbed in crimson, was visible. I was to see them off today on their march, a reconnaissance mission and a last-ditch effort to recall my father to the throne. They would be no match for him now, only a delay, and later, for Ukoku, they would be only dust. My father’s body could support him long enough to see to our end, but if my men could hold him off a month—only eighteen days, now—if they could prevent him from stripping the wards and freeing Ukoku, we could win. We had our Sanzo. 

And said Sanzo coughed, so I turned, eyes a little wider. He wore everything but the crown, and when I cast my gaze to it, he glared.

“I am not wearing a veil.” The priest said stubbornly. 

I inclined my head in submission, looking him over. “It’s comely.”

“ _What?_ ” He hissed, and I didn’t know why.

“It suits you,” I said instead, because really, it did. He was very fair, like his father, and the fabric fell in neat folds over a narrow form; he was just tall enough to carry it, and the perse hue of the belt matched his eyes. He could be intimidating without trying.

“Tch.” When he brushed past me to look out the window, I caught the strong scent of myrrh that trailed the clothing. The curve of one shoulder became a sharp angle as he turned, long hands splayed upon the marble sill. 

“Inspection?”

“No. They’re marching out in an hour. To Melorodon.” I saw the line had shifted some, and more were in view of the window, a sturdy line of crimson and gleaming spear tips and sword sheathes. In that they matched, but each man’s helmet was his own, an ancestral thing one knew better than to alter. It was a thing of pride. 

“To fight your father.”

“To dissuade him,” I said quietly, almost feeling his pity. I pushed off from the wall and spanned the length of his bedroom in a few quick steps. “I must go. You’re welcome to accompany me; the men should see you.”

“Like this?”

“Just like this,” I said, knowing they would take heart, seeing him the way his father had looked when they escorted him a few years prior. This time they would be crossing the seas alone, but hopefully not for long. I explained in brief each major battalion as we approached, and the basic concept behind the divisions. He asked about ‘cavalry,’ and I said we had no such thing, and he must explain it to me later. 

I did tell him that here, horses here are not in great abundance, and are used primarily for transportation. Most men do not have them, and they are hardly hardy enough for war, set up next to a dragon. Of those we have few also, though for different reasons, and generals may ride their own into battle, if they like. Many I know had made arrangements to take them along, though one hardly brought such a creature to a formal inspection. They are patient enough, but don’t take kindly to large groups. Sanzo looked a little disappointed when I told him. When we arrived, though, he wiped the expression from his face like a true politician and donned an appropriately solemn visage instead.

The soldiers stood in neat formation before a makeshift dais where generals were inspecting alignments and taking a head count. Last minute repairs were being made to weapons and cloaks, orders were being passed among leaders and rumors among followers, but they fell silent when I stepped up, so much so that I could hear my own footsteps on the worn wooden treads below. It was nerve-wracking for so many soldiers to stand so still. For a breath, I thought they feared me, and it sent a pain through my stomach. They thought I would send them to their deaths. But I remembered Sanzo, who stepped up behind me, and traced their gazes back to his white silhouette. 

Xaja stood at the right, his scarlet cloak trimmed heavily in gold and speckled with the insignia of his rank. He wore pins of many stones and a heavy clasp where a gorget might otherwise have rested. He nodded and saluted, and I inclined my head, remembering longingly the weight of my own regalia, and wishing I were able to lead them forth. To the left was Suelep, his weathered face speaking only of experience, never of exhaustion. He put about that he was sixty, but he had been saying that since I first wielded a sword, and I knew him for at least seventy-five, though he never showed it. While he was not brutal, he more than made up for it in cunning, and I trusted his judgment before almost anyone else’s. 

The center battalion stood out from the rest, all cloaked in white, the only color a red-stitched sparrow on the backs of their tunics. They were the elite, my Companions, men whom I had trained and who were of an age with me. Every king had such a troop—my father’s own had often been led by Xaja, during his youth. Usually Dokugakuji led mine, but I had left them, this time, under the charge of his half-brother. Theirs was the grim duty of destroying defectors, even though I knew full well none of them would do so willingly. 

In the distance, near the stables, I knew Hakkai had outfitted a scouting party to travel by dragon. I put Sedemoid at their head; he was the most capable rider of my generals, and far-sighted, so his vision was especially keen from overhead. He was to take thirty men and divide them as he saw fitting; Dokugakuji had already spoken to him, and the group had left by morning. I addressed the men standing before me then.

“You know,” I strode forth as I spoke, letting them see my face, “what faces us. There isn’t one of you who hasn’t grown up on legends of this horror, just as I have.” My voice carried very well from the dais because I was trained to speak in the midst of battle over almost as great a distance. It was much easier when the men were silent, their feet and weapons still. I fancied they could hear me almost all the way to the back. I told them what they already knew, recounting Ukoku’s evils to rally their spirits and remind them of their duty, all the while feeling a great hypocrite for being unable to lead them myself. 

When I spoke of defending their people, their homes and wives and their lives, they thrust their spears skyward and shouted approval. It was a burden not to flush in humiliation, and I was glad I hadn’t insisted on Dokugakuji’s presence. In holding him back I had been selfish, and he would suffer for it. Reminding them of our gods’ kindness, I gestured to Sanzo, and the men hailed him too, seeing him for the warrior he was, even if he fought with a different weapon. Nothing was required of him but his presence; soldiers respected pious silence from a priest. Not a few looked relieved at the heaven-sent assurance. 

I said some pretty words about glory that men like to hear before going off to risk their lives, even if they didn’t quite believe them, and then I thanked them, sincerely. I always thanked them, so that, just in case someone didn’t come back, he would know. And then a man from my own Companions, waving his red-ribboned spear, shouted, “Long live the king!” Before the rest could take up the cry in earnest, I held out my hands.

“Yes,” I agreed, “Long live the king. You have used this title with me for the past year, a great courtesy, while I have served you in that capacity. But I remind you that your true king is still living, but far from you. That is the primary goal of your mission, and the surest way to defend your country. To bring Gyumaoh back to Erythros.” 

They were silent a beat too long to have simply been absorbing the message. Suelep was a diplomat, and I saw his face tighten before raising a cry of agreement and promise; Xaja winced noticeably, piteously. I wanted to rail at them—couldn’t they see it was an enchantment? My father had clearly been coerced, and he might still be freed from it. Didn’t they care for their king? 

I told them I would bring Sanzo to them on the next full moon, and if Ukoku, Gods-forbid, did raise his army from the black dirt of Melorodon, I would come. “You will not,” I bellowed, determined to put more than the emphasis of voice on this promise, because I meant it dearly, “fight him alone.”

When they were cheering me, spears and hands and strong voices flying upward, I felt their hope filter through me and sear my insides. I needed to be with them now, leading them out to war, but I had no heir, and I did not have my father’s abilities. In this way I was more powerless than even the least of my soldiers because I did more harm dead than alive, and alive I couldn’t fight with them. 

I leaped from the dais to walk among them, remembering more than a few names, and clasped hands, receiving kisses and praises and showing them nothing of my self-reproach. One man tugged my hair, another my cloak, and when I circled back around to the front, Gojyo was standing before the Companions, all white and red. It was tradition to offer up my ring for the leader of the Companions to kiss, a sign of high favor and respect, but he didn’t look to be expecting it. I read his eyes, and despite my smile, I suppose he read mine. _This should be Dokugakuji._ I held out my hand to clasp his hard, and turned it so that he saw the signet ring, glowing red and sized down from when Gyumaoh wore it. He bent his head and brushed his mouth over the stone, grazing my knuckle, and I saw his lips quirk in a wry grin. When he spoke I had to read his lips over the shouts and cheers of a properly-enthused army. 

“Tell my brother thanks for the commendation.”

I frowned. “Do you think,” I spoke into his ear, smelling the clove wash of his hair, “That I would oblige him at the risk of my army? You’re more than qualified, and you know it.” 

His smile was genuine that time, and he startled me, stabbing the long length of his scythe at the sky so that the white streamers on it streaked like clouds across a clear blue. He cried, “For the Sparrow King.” 

The men picked up the shout, and if he’d told me beforehand, I would have forbidden his making public so intimate a title. But, on the wave of their shouts, I heard it only in loving approval, and understood it for what it was. On the dais again, where most could see me, Sanzo having drifted to the edge near the parapet and the sheer curving walls of the castle, I saw them off, every last regiment, until the sun was set. Their waving banners and snaking lines took a long time to disappear over the horizon, and I was surprised, when they did, to feel the priest’s presence behind me. I’d thought he would have gone in by then. Perhaps he didn’t know he had leave to. 

“Do you do this every time?”

“Do what?” I queried.

“Send them off, watch them go. Stand here until it darkens.”

“The men must know you feel it, even when you cannot be with them.”

“Why would you be?” We were walking indoors then over well-trodden and turned up earth, kicking up dust that clung to my clothes and slid easily from Sanzo’s. 

“Because a king leads his men to war and to battle.”

“A smart one stays the hell out of it,” Sanzo opined, slipping in after me through a small side door; a servant carrying a silver ewer passed us by with a quick curtsy. “If you got killed, who’s going to run the country? There’s no way you have a son of age, and who else knows the ropes?”

“My Council said as much. But it is disloyal to the men. If I had my father’s abilities, I would have no fear in leading them. As things lie, I still would, if the others weren’t so vehemently opposed. There are more than enough capable men and women to rule Erythros.”

“Women?” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “I didn’t take your country for one that allowed it.” We were circling back to the study, and in the dining room I could smell dinner being laid out, and it turned my stomach. 

“What’s to allow? The bloodline is the bloodline.”

“When was the last time a woman actually sat on the throne?” His voice still held too much mocking amusement for my liking, and I snapped back, out of temper.

“My great-grandmother held the throne for twenty-two years. She was the first-born, and trained to it. Erythros hasn’t been so prosperous since.”

That shut him up, but when we went to dinner, the silence was less than companionable. Very little was said, and if he was unnerved by the quiet, he didn’t show it. Flatware clicked and clacked, and he took very little food, and less wine, preferring water, I saw. It was late when we started, and later still when we took to the hall. 

Sanzo looked ready to bid me goodnight when we were stalled en route by a guard, his face so stolid that it looked sewn together, only the eyes left opened. He saluted and made a bow. “Lord, you’re needed in the Hall. Trouble with the army, m’Lord.” The nervous tic in his eye, the only giveaway, for he was well-trained, made my stomach knot hard as he continued. “General sent him back, Lord. Deserter.” 

I clenched my jaw and felt my teeth grind, already off toward the hall in a streak of movement; he easily caught up, and I heard Sanzo’s softer footsteps behind me. This must be dealt with quickly and quietly; I didn’t want to be responsible for a panic, and desertion was a strong indicator of such a thing. There were still soldiers here at home, too. 

“Which general sent him?” I asked, dodging the decorative pillars that lined the corridor leading to the wide throne room and reception hall. It was the first thing Sanzo had seen of the castle, and at night, too, a daunting sort of place. 

“Gojyo, Sir.” 

I stopped, my hand on the door. Gojyo sent him back. A Companion. “Desertion?” I murmured, and heard the guard’s nod like a thunderclap. It was a king’s duty to preside over any cases of treason, desertion included, and it was not a trial that could be handed off to even a high-ranking councilman or general. The best I could ever do was concede to their input when they were directly involved or the recipient of the violent act. I was not so cruel that I would call Dokugakuji to share this burden too, and I neither trusted nor hated anyone else enough to summon them. When the guard asked if he might do as much, I shook my head. 

“You have leave to go. Or stay. As you like.” Trials like this were military affairs, and as much his business as anyone else’s. He went, and I pushed open the great double doors so that they snapped back with my entrance, flooding the dim hall with light from the corridor. Servants were rushing to finish igniting torches and oil lamps, leaving the chandelier overhead untouched. I didn’t look ahead, but pinched my mouth in anger and watched the marble tiles blur under my feet from the corner of my eye, not facing him until I sat at the throne, feet firmly on the floor, one on a black stone, the other white, and looked up. 

\--------------------

After the cheering mass Kougaiji had just seen off, it seemed impossible that one would have turned to escape so abruptly. But maybe not so impossible, considering where they were going. I didn’t recognize the man from the castle, but Kougaiji sure did. I saw the muscles in his jaw leap upon viewing him, and his mouth parted just slightly, letting out a little breath of air as if he were struggling to stay seated upright. I kept well to the side and out of his line of vision, pressed between two pilasters where the marble emitted cool air that seeped through the back of my robes. 

Two armed guards held either shoulder of the deserter, who was indeed from the Companion regiment, wearing mud stained white and Kougaiji’s scarlet sparrow on the back of the cloak. His weapons had been removed, and his helmet, but nothing else, and I thought he must be sweating double under all the armor. He looked very young, surely no more than eighteen, if that, and his skin was pasty from nerves and heat. Dark brown hair was plastered to his nape with sweat. The soldier was forced to kneel, which I thought he might have done willingly enough, if they’d let him go. Kougaiji told them to do as much a second after, and kept his hands on the claw-like armrests of the seat. 

I remember what he told me about the Companions that afternoon, men he had trained himself, people in his age group who fought with him, were loyal to him. They were a smallish group, and I didn’t doubt each was a comrade. No wonder he looked pained, seeing a friend’s betrayal. But the soldier was hardly more than a kid—I felt sympathy for him, especially considering my own trepidation. But I had felt the power of the scroll, too, and knew myself well-protected. All he had was a spear. 

“Goku.” Kougaiji’s voice rang in the hall, and the crystal clusters of the chandelier overhead tinkled, mimicking the roll of his voice. 

“Kougaiji I’m so--”

The guard jerked him back hard, and I watched Kougaiji shake his head, telling him to stop and let Goku speak. The boy had stopped, though, and another guard had come forward, this one also wearing the insignia of the Companions. He must have been the guard Gojyo had sent back with Goku.

“State the charges.”

“Desertion during wartime, assault of the pursuing officer, direct disobedience of king’s orders.” 

“Which officer?” Kougaiji wanted to know.

“Grouse,” he said. “He hadn’t liked to turn him in, Lord, and wasn’t badly hurt in pursuit. But Gojyo made him.” 

Kougaiji absorbed that and turned back to face Goku. “The law gives you the span of a day and night to collect yourself and prepare your defense. Your witness,” he nodded to the other Companion, “may be remanded for the procedure. What do you elect?”

The boy shook his head, still kneeling, though he seemed to be permitted to stand if he wanted. He didn’t want to. “’M not gonna lie to ya, Kougaiji,” he said. “And I already know what happened. I don’t need the time.” 

I would have advised him to take it, but shaking all over as he was, a night and day of anticipation might kill him. 

“Very well. You may speak your case.” Kougaiji inclined his head, just a touch of softness in his voice. I recognized it as hope; he was waiting to hear Goku deny the charges, or present some perhaps embarrassing but overall plausible explanation of what happened. He would have believed it too, I saw. Anything the boy would have thrown out, he would gladly have taken and internalized as truth. 

But Goku was too stubbornly honest to save his own skin. “I hadn’t meant t’hurt him,” he began, “I sure didn’t aim for his throat. He moved faster n’ me, and when I kicked, there it was.” He backpedalled a bit, starting at the beginning. “We were marchin’, and I thought I was okay, I did. Even a little excited—I’ve never fought before this, since I was too young, the last few times the Companions went out. Everyone tells great stories about it, you know, and they all say nothin’ like this will ever happen again. That we’re gonna be famous, and that this is the biggest battle anyone’ll see in a thousand years. Some guys tell me that, and I say, ‘Well we’d better make sure we win it, then.’ I guess it doesn’t hit me that we’re gonna have to lose a lot before we win, and that when we do, it ain’t gonna be against men.” He frowned and bit his lower lip, then, seeming to realize what he was doing, stopped and hardened his upper lip, speaking a little faster. 

“When we got far enough, I was able to see the coast from a hillock. I’ve never been that far from home before—never seen the ocean. I guess I always thought it was blue, but facing Melorodon…it’s all black. Just a thick, black line that blots out the sun and doesn’t reflect nothin’ and looks cold. I thought about crossin’ all that black only to hit a blacker shore, and all the things that monster could make come outta the ground at us. It’s true, ain’t it, that he can summon beasts from the Earth? That that’s how he killed so many people last time?” He paused, but it wasn’t in expectation of an answer.

I saw Kougaiji’s face was unwavering, and this from a man who had known him since youth? I had already given Goku my sympathy, unnerved by the way his voice shook, as though he knew his explanation wouldn’t do any good, but he had to make it anyways. 

“So I started doin’ everything they tell you not to in training. I thought about more than the present, thinkin’ about sailing over the water, about marchin’ through bogs that suck men under and fill ‘em up with mud. About how the ground there must really be alive, a bunch of dirt ready to turn into beasts and slaughter us before we can even draw our swords. And I thought it’d be nice to be famous, but maybe it’d be nicer not to be, and be alive instead. I though I could feel the cold already from the boglands; they told me it was just the wind off the sea, but I knew it wasn’t. It was too dark,” he murmured, “and it tasted different, like brine and blood. We passed by a thicket, the edge of a forest, and even the shadows there seemed brighter than what we were goin’ to.” He lowered his head and let out a shuddering noise, sucking back a wet sob. I leaned forward instinctively though we were meters apart. 

“So I went to it. I ran,” he affirmed, “And no-one saw me, at first. I was doin’ it almost for a full two minutes maybe, before I heard someone behind me, and it was Hazel, hissin’ at me to get back. Oh!” He looked pained anew, shaking his head, “He didn’t know—he woulda told ya. But he thought, I don’t know, that I had wandered.” I saw he didn’t want to get his friend in trouble, and Kougaiji overlooked it. 

“I got so scared when he grabbed for me that I meant to kick him back—but then he tried to scoop me up! My boot caught his neck, and that’s why it took so long, I guess, for them to get me. He couldn’t talk right, or call for help. I made sure he was okay, when I ran again. I thought it was gettin’ warmer, the further I went. And the smell of the sea was goin’ away, and things were brighter even under the trees. I didn’t really think where I’d go, or whether or not I could hide. I didn’t really think much, except that I couldn’t do it, and that I couldn’t go back. Hazel finally caught up to me, and this time the gen’rl was there, and he made them take me back. And it’s just so weird that I was screamin’ louder than anyone nine hours ago, and now…” He was baffled, face frowning, and I saw clean streaks of skin where tears had come down through the dirt on his face. What he said next, I didn’t know how to take, and plainly neither did Kougaiji. 

“Now that doesn’t even feel like me.” 

“You’re aware of the punishment for desertion?” Kougaiji inquired, and Goku bowed his head in a solemn nod.

“And you do not recant?” That sounded almost like a plea, I thought, and noticed the king’s hands were white at the knuckles, gripping the armrests savagely in an attempt not to throttle the boy and make him take it back, come up with an excuse, anything. 

“I can’t lie to you, Kougaiji.” Goku repeated softly, looking up from the tiles. “I was scared.”

“You were not drafted,” Kougaiji reminded him. “You enrolled willingly in youth, and enrolled again in the active army when you turned eighteen.” To all this the boy nodded his agreement. He had. The king took in a stuttering breath, and I waited for a loophole to make itself known to him. He was cooking up something, he had to be, with that wide-eyed expression hanging on front of him. He simply couldn’t say anything in front of the others and risk setting a bad example. Goku was one of his own, and entitled to a certain degree of protection. Wasn’t that only fair?

Kougaiji looked tired all of a sudden, and drained. He nodded to the guards. “Escort him to a room. You know procedure. This is not a private affair; put out word to the barracks. The sentencing comes an hour after sunrise; you’ll bring him to the opening behind the Dust Court.” 

They hardly had time to nod or bow before he was up and off the throne, striding down the hall. “You’re dismissed,” he said evenly, his voice no longer carrying to rattle the chandelier. The doors too, fell quietly closed behind him, and I turned back only once to catch the expression on Goku’s face; it was hidden beneath a lock of hair and shadows, and the guards roughly jerked him upward. Funny that between them, it was Kougaiji who looked more betrayed. 

 

 

He went into his study and, if he were the door-slamming sort, he probably would have shaken the rafters. It would be stupid to follow right away, so I hung about the corridor for half an hour and listened to him pace. Several servants passed the closed doors and eyed me warily, as if we shared a great secret. News travels fast among the help in both worlds, apparently. 

When it became clear he wasn’t about to emerge, I took a sharp breath, wished I had a cigarette, and went in anyways, slipping between bronze-wrapped doors so that they clicked neatly shut at my back. His desk was stacked tidily with ledgers and ink wells and a blown glass oil lamp that was starting to gutter out. He was not behind it, but on the sill of the window, body bent slightly, looking out. If he heard me come in, he didn’t show it until I was close enough for him to see my reflection in the glass.

I thought I knew what he was thinking and asked, “Have you come up with it yet?”

There was a long pause, and then he turned to me, his face blank. “Come up with what?”

“A get-out of jail free. A loophole,” I amended. When he only stared at me, I said slowly, “For Goku. Were we not just in the same room?”

“There is no loophole. Goku will die tomorrow shortly after sentencing.” 

“What! How!” He misunderstood my question and frowned.

“By beheading.”

“ _No_ , goddammit— _how_ could you do this? I don’t even know him, and I feel more sympathy for the boy than you! He’s your _friend_!”

“He deserted, Sanzo. During wartime. That is the only punishment.” The barren, unaffected way he spoke made my blood boil.

“He’s just a kid, Kougaiji! You can’t seriously—you’re not really going to do that?” It seemed so positively Medieval—no, Antique—that I couldn’t fathom it. I’d read about it, but even the most vicious criminals of my own time were put to death in a more decent way. 

“Stop saying that.”

“Are you--”

“ _Stop_ ,” Kougaiji hissed, rising up. “He is not a _boy_ , he’s a _man _, and he will take a man’s punishment. You think I feel nothing? He was a Companion. There is always someone to be made example of, and I would to the Gods that it weren’t him, but it is. I gave him…every opportunity,” he quieted a little, “and his damnable honor kept him from it. And what’s left of it,” his voice strengthened again then, “will remain intact. Do not call him ‘boy’ again.”__

__“Kougaiji…beheading?” He’d struck me as an honorable man. I didn’t think I could stomach the sight, when it happened.  
“That is a kindness, for his rank. Anyone lower would be whipped and hanged. It is a serious offense.”_ _

__It took effort not to gag—this man, the one who had, half a day ago, thanked his troops and blessed them on their march out, was equally willing to flay them and hang them out to dry? He was making Henry II look tame._ _

__“Can’t you…can’t you call the others in? Your Council. Wouldn’t they do something?” I spoke as though, after my brief time there, I might come up with a plan he hadn’t already considered._ _

__“Yes.” He said simply. “I will call them for formality’s sake, to make them aware, but to what end?”_ _

__“Strike a few old laws out of the ledgers. Set a precedent!”_ _

__“For more desertion? No.”_ _

__“Call them to--”_ _

__“Share the responsibility? The guilt? They would come to the same conclusion—if they didn’t, someone would have spoken to me by now of it.” He gestured at the still door as if in evidence. “To force them to convene over the issue would be to implicate them as well. Watching justice being carried out and being the one to drop the blade are two very different things. That isn’t their burden.”_ _

__“No,” I agreed vehemently, my face crumpling in a scowl. I wanted to strike him. “That guilt’s all on you.”_ _

__I left with a ringing slam of the doors that startled the servants outside; they bowed when I passed, and I ignored them, going to the wide staircase that would lead to my own rooms. Lirin was in the hall, the fuzzy mutt Sogra trapped between a cave of arms and legs in what looked like an uncomfortable embrace. She looked at me._ _

__“The servants say a soldier is going to die. Because he ran away. Is it true, he is going to?”_ _

__“Yes. He’s going to. And your brother will be wielding the blade,” I spat, and the horrified look on her face made me wish I could swallow the words back. He was her brother. She’d already lost her father. _But it wasn’t a lie, either._ _ _

__“But Sanzo!” Sogra yipped and trotted after her when she leaped up, following me so that I felt as though a row of ducklings was chasing my heels. “Sanzo—can’t you just make ‘im disappear? Maybe he can go back to your world.”_ _

__“I don’t even know how _I_ got here,” I pointed out. “Much less how to take someone back with me.”_ _

__“I know.” She was smiling, as if it were the simplest answer. “But you’re magic, like Brother, but different. You’re holy.”_ _

__I thought that was definitely the strangest thing I’d ever been called, and shook my head. “I’m sorry, I’m not. And I don’t know what I can do for him.”_ _

__And then, later that night, half asleep and plagued by the thoughts of morning, I did. I was holy, after all._ _

__\-------------------_ _

__

__The night before Goku’s execution, I dreamed. I hadn’t thought I would; in fact, I hadn’t thought I would even sleep. I was aware the day I accepted the crown of what I may, someday, have to do, but I never let myself think anyone close to me could bring such a thing upon himself. How unfair, to phrase it in such a way, as though I were merely an onlooker, watching in motionless horror as Goku incurred the wrath of faceless Justice._ _

___Why didn’t you lie?_ _ _

__I would have believed it, even if he’d shaken or stumbled with his words. Even if he’d cried. _Especially_ if he’d cried. And he had, but they weren’t tears for his life, they were tears for me. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry.__ _

___I_ was sorry. _ _

__And to see Sanzo, looking at me with such blatant revulsion. Was it backward—barbaric? Did men in his land excuse it? Was the practice of execution somehow swifter, less bloody? I pushed my face into the pillow and writhed in discomfort, trying not to think on it, and then reminding myself that I _deserved_ to think on it. Some things were wrong on the surface and still had to be done, to prevent more of them from occurring. And someone had to _do_ them, to effect the change. I’d seen my father put men to death, some that I knew, most that I didn’t, and he’d never wavered. And I’d never thought him unfeeling. It was the king’s job, and I remembered his words. _ _

___Some cruelties are necessary.__ _

__You can’t protect everyone, at some point men have to take responsibility for their own actions, and all that. But it wasn’t ever so cut and dry. Fleeing was less an action than an instinctive reflex, and fear—the catalyst behind it—wasn’t an action at all. It was an emotion, and a cruel one to exploit. Was I about to kill a man for being afraid?_ _

__But I was deconstructing it, tearing apart important elements and altering the significance of the act. A thing is greater than the sum of its parts, and desertion during wartime could not be let go with impunity. But Sanzo was wrong; Goku was not a boy, of that I was decidedly certain. He was a man, and a man makes his own choices and is judged by them. I thought of Dokugakuji, of how I hadn’t seen him all day, and thought, He has judged me, too. _And how did you find, Doku?__ _

___I was fifteen when I first realized it, but gods only know when I first_ felt _it. He was just turned eighteen, a man’s age, and had come from his party smelling sweetly of wine but still steady on his feet. He wore a white tunic, a traditional garment of celebration, but this one was new, with a line of gold frog clasps down the center and up over one shoulder, some tied with ribbon by drunken friends or women. He’d clipped the unruly locks of his youth short, and without them I could see the strong line of his jaw where it angled up beneath his ear. Three years wasn’t much, but it felt like a world apart. I hadn’t gone to the party for fear that he would see me as an obligation and not enjoy himself. Of course I didn’t tell him this—he would scoff—and explained only that my father wanted my presence for some such thing. It wasn’t unusual, and he hadn’t seemed upset. We had promised to meet after.__ _

___“I hope I haven’t kept you up past curfew,” he teased, ducking beneath the hanging flowers of the trellis and following me onto the cool paving stones of the garden. We could hear the sound of water plashing nearby, and the sudden light of the lanterns made me realized he was flushed._ _ _

___“Oh ha-ha. That’s some way to go about getting your present,” I scolded, and he immediately stood up straight and saluted, professional in everything but his grin._ _ _

___“I won’t let it happen again, Sir. Ready for reprimand and unwrapping, Sir.”_ _ _

___I barked out a laugh, drawing him down onto the fountain edge beside me. I pulled too hard, and he wobbled near the water before sitting; I teased him about being drunk._ _ _

___“Never! I hold my wine like a vineyard vat,” he protested, and I poked the hard line of his abdomen._ _ _

___“It’s a good thing you don’t look like one too.”_ _ _

___“But think if I did, I’d win every bout. All I’d have to do would be flop on my side and turn around.”_ _ _

___We were howling with laughter—perhaps I’d snuck a bit of wine too—and I almost stumbled sliding off the fountain edge, bending down to a decorative niche in the stone where the running water kept it very cool. Waiting for him, I’d put there a thick slice of white cake, the icing almost an inch thick on top of it and robin’s egg blue in color. It wasn’t the sort of pastry traditionally served for a birthday—those were butter-layered and crisp—but a different kind, as dragons like. I held it out and placed it into his palm, the base cushioned by a crinkled white paper._ _ _

___“What’s this? You saved me a piece of cake?”_ _ _

___“That is your present. Or rather, indicative of your present.”_ _ _

___“The whole cake?” He guessed, and I snorted in amusement, shaking my head._ _ _

___“Porphyra’s egg hatched.” I said. We had both been waiting on that for four months; a dragon’s incubation period was notoriously long, and that after what was usually a six-month gestation period. “It’s a male; he’s jet black.”_ _ _

___“Kougaiji.” I knew the look of shock—dragons were one of the most expensive luxuries, and only afforded to the best riders and most capable soldiers. Young men never had them, and they were never prizes in games, either. We respect them too much._ _ _

___“Kougaiji you…should keep him for yourself.”_ _ _

___I knew what he was thinking, that I could hardly afford to give it—what money did a prince have that was not his father’s? I shook my head. “You know Porphyra is mine. Obviously the child is hers, but who rides him is my decision. And I did keep him, but now I’m giving his saddle over to you.”_ _ _

___“Well…thank you. I’m honored.” Dokugakuji looked uncertain of where to rest his gaze or hands, and the awkwardness was catching._ _ _

___“You sound so formal.”_ _ _

___That made him crack a grin, holding up the cake. “Do you think Porphyra would be terribly offended if we ate her cake?”  
“Not so long as we bring a bigger piece next time,” I met his easy smile with my own, and he bit into the edge, taking the corner off easily and holding it out in offering._ _ _

___“That’s pure sugar. No wonder they like it.”_ _ _

___I leaned toward him to take the paper-wrapped base and bite off the other end when suddenly he pushed it forward, smashing the soft icing up over my face and nose so that I retreated with a cough and falsely indignant protest._ _ _

___“Hey!”_ _ _

___He was laughing. “That blue is going to stain.”_ _ _

___“Oh well I don’t c—I’m due at the courts tomorrow!” I realized with astonishment, eyes going wide and only encouraging him to laugh harder._ _ _

___“You’re such a boor,” I grumbled, peering over the fountain to cup a palmful of water to wash my face. I felt the pendant under my vest slip loose, hanging forward and glinting in lantern light._ _ _

___“You still wear that?” The teasing in his tone had been replaced by something like sentiment._ _ _

___“Of course I do.” The water dribbled out, and I sat up straight. Hadn’t he ever seen it on me before then? “I’ve always worn it.”  
He grinned at me, “Sparrow Prince.” _ _ _

___I licked the blue from my mouth, hoping it wouldn’t truly stain, and saw his eyes dart down, following the movement. And then I just_ knew. _ _

___I think I moved first. No, I know I did; I felt the smooth stone under my knee, so I had leaned up to meet him. We kissed. It wasn’t the childish tapping of lips of before, but hardly the suave, grown-up kisses I had seen between others. My mouth fit neatly against his, and my hand went to touch the newly cropped hair at his nape. I could taste the cake, the wine, his tongue, and a flush sprang up everywhere that made me want anything but to cool off. He dropped the pastry, and I felt his arm slip around my waist, tugging me forward and up, bending to cover my mouth and lick the rest of the icing from my lip.__ _

___We broke for breath, and he would have continued; his hand was on my chest, hot like a brand, but then someone called him from indoors, wandering out and into the garden. We scrambled apart, and my fingers gripped the fountain’s edge so hard they hurt. He retreated to his party, promising to meet me and Porphyra both the next day. I looked down at the fallen cake, a smash of white on the cobblestones, and remembered how it got there. And where I was now, and would be tomorrow, and why he hadn’t…_ said _something. I felt myself judged. Insipid. Inadequate. Adolescent.__ _

___The next day when we met in the stables, neither of us spoke of it. He might have said something, if I’d given him half an opening. And I might have given him one, if I thought he might do anything other than apologize. Eventually that night fell into a catalogue of memories, dulled for him by the drink and for me by sheer will, refusing to revisit it. When I turned eighteen, he was there, and presented me with a sword belt, more symbolic than stately. There was great feasting and singing and there was a look, one he didn’t see or pretended well not to, and then there was drinking. But there was no kissing, at least not on my part, and when I woke up I was alone, as I have been almost entirely since, and I’ve learned to take some comfort in that._ _ _

__

__TBC_ _


	5. Chapter 5

I woke before even Kougaiji—in fact, I never did sleep—and waited outside his chambers. The guards didn’t bat an eye at me; those robes really opened doors. When he walked out, dressed in a somber black trimmed with scarlet and gold, I was leaning into a pillar and touching the gilded edge of the scroll. 

“Sanzo.” He greeted me with some uncertainty. 

“When you found me, you told me I was holy.”

He looked baffled then, but nodded. “Yes.”

“Am I still?” I thought I must look either a fright from lack of sleep or terribly imposing, because he had taken a step backward. 

“Yes. You are.”

“And would you not be wise to take my counsel, if I were to pass judgment?”

Kougaiji saw quickly where that was going and frowned darkly, opening his mouth in protest. And then, clutching hard at the thought like a beggar at food, he smiled, hopeful and shaky and pleading. “No king has ever denied the direction of a Sanzo priest. I will not be the fool to set that precedent. If a god has spoken to you,” he began very carefully, letting me know without so many words what I would need to say, “It is all of our duties to obey.”

A servant walked in then, and I thought it couldn’t hurt to have an audience, already having witnessed the speed at which news traveled through the castle. “Then know this. The b—the prisoner is not to die today. The gods have use of him still. Pardon him.” 

I saw the servant’s eyes swivel about in her head, watching me and trying to appear as though she were still re-arranging the silver tea service. 

Kougaiji replied gruffly, as if he hadn’t wanted it, but I saw the thanks in his eyes, the relief fleshing out tight lines about the edges and peeling back years. “It will be done. To what do I free him?” He seemed genuinely intrigued by what I had cooked up, and privately I thanked my father for years of Arrian as bedtime stories. 

“His life belongs to the gods now. They have need of him.” And then, seeing the servant was still fiddling and hanging on every word, I added for his benefit, “It was their madness that bade him run; they wouldn’t forsake him.” I thought I had read a thing or two about Dionysos doing that, inspiring madness in chosen ones that would have been criminal in the unaffected. Perhaps they had something similar. 

When the serving girl left, the king clasped my hand hard between both of his, a crushing grip, and I realized they shook hands with both palms. “Thank you for telling me when you did. I should not like to displease the gods.”

I frowned, shaking my head, “Kougaiji I never--”

“Ah—no.” His hands went up to stall my words, and there was a smile on his mouth. “You need not explain it to me, priest. I do not doubt you.” And he stripped off the heavy ebony outer cloak, peeling out of mourning, to reveal a fair green beneath, the edges beaded with nacre studs. I cast a wary glance at him—light colors were celebratory, weren’t they?—and he only shook his head again, that enigmatic almost-smile never slipping as he parted the doors. 

“I will tell him to whom he owes his gratitude, then.” 

“Look, I don’t want a fuss,” I began my protest, but he laughed, speaking once more before shutting the doors behind him.

“To the gods, Sanzo.” 

“Oh. Of course.” 

 

\-------------------

 

The sentencing—or rather, the excusal of the sentencing, was very brief. It was held in the main hall, rather than the Dust Court, where I presumed more dire lots were dealt out. The center of the magnificent room was left bare, its checkered marble tiles gleaming in the early morning light, recently polished or infrequently trodden. Men of importance, glittering in medallions and rings, flanked either side leading up to the throne. Dokugakuji stood to the left of it, and the second chair, of equal height and bearing and meant for a queen, remained empty. Initially I had found the throne unimposing, smallish and flat on the ground, rather than a dais. Now, seeing it surrounded by what it controlled, I thought it would be easy to be afraid and felt badly for Goku, hoping he knew better than to show it. 

Having become something of a court ornament now, I wore the ivory robes and gold leaf breastplate, once again refusing the crown and veil. Kougaiji look vibrant, and his relief was palpable. When his men saw him not in black, but green silk, they were baffled and then pacified, all but the one, a sneering old advisor who might have been part of his Assembly. The one I had learned was called Rotsen appeared pleased, and watched Kougaiji with the soft eye of a father. From his age and bearing, I guessed that he had probably been one of the late king’s advisors too, and seen Kougaiji born. 

The king spoke prettily, the explanation all laid out, and then, cueing me forward, told Goku that he was pleased by the Heavens’ intervention and their need of him. His desertion was renamed; clearly it was the will of a god that he fled; he was not meant to fight after all, and none could contest it. When he said this, there was some shuffling in the ranks that remained, and I saw the guard who had escorted Goku the night before, still wearing his telltale cloak, smile. He quickly hid it, but the expression was a kind one. _He hadn’t wanted to bring him in either_ , I realized.

Kougaiji announced that his Companion would not return to the army, but live at the capital to serve the Gods. Through me. He hadn’t warned me about that in advance, and I must have shown surprise. I wanted to save his neck, not adopt him. But suddenly he was looking at me with such gratitude, hiding his hazel gaze beneath his bangs so that the expression was revealed to me alone, that I found my voice and nodded.

People filtered out when they were dismissed, but Goku did not, lingering where he knelt and then, when the room cleared, he strode over to me only to kneel again. “Sanzo.”

“Don’t—you don’t have to do that,” I assured him quickly, not liking the gesture. When he did rise, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and that was equally unnerving. I couldn’t read him without seeing them. To startle him, I said, “ _Goku_ ,” and he jerked his head up at attention, not used to the demeanor of a servant, and I gave a crooked smile. Better.

“Where I come from, very few people have servants. Never my sort. You’ll be very bored,” I warned, but he shook his head.

“I’m sure I won’t. Sir.”

“Don’t do that,” I said uncomfortably. “Samuel’s fine.” In fact no one had called me by that since my arrival. Even Kougaiji called me by my title. 

“Yes Sir. Sanzo. Samuel.” Goku stammered, coloring a little. He still wore his cloak, ivory and overlaid with a crimson sparrow, and I saw him fiddling with the clasp, glancing at Kougaiji who was speaking in low tones near the throne with Rotsen.

“Is it true, Sanzo,” He lapsed into titular address in his nervousness, “What the king says? That a god willed me to do it?” He looked so stupidly hopeful, that maybe that rash decision, that instinct screaming _flight_ hadn’t come from his heart, but from some heavenly mandate, that I forced a careless expression, as though it were a foolish question.

“Of course it’s true.” I couldn’t prove that it wasn’t true. Someone had sent me here after all, hadn’t they? That or this was an impossibly detailed coma dream, the half of which I wouldn’t remember upon waking, though I was certain by then that penning it down would make me a rich man. 

Goku smiled and bowed his head again; I almost corrected him for it—really it was hard to talk to the top of peoples’ heads—but then I saw Kougaiji’s advance, and Goku sank to his knee. 

“Rise, Goku,” the king said casually enough, and there was a look that passed between them that made me think I had missed something. That some forgiveness had already been doled out, some private matter discussed and determined ahead of time. 

He took the cloak from him, not tearing it from his back, but unclasping it with gentle hands. Acolytes, the king said, wear their own distinctive garb. It was not a demotion, but rather a change of profession. He gave him the name of a priest, one whom I had not met, and sent him there for his clothing, folding the worn but clean sparrow cloak over his own arm. I saw his fingers flick across the delicate threading at the base. 

“You told him in advance,” I began tentatively, watching Kougaji’s eyes rise to meet mine.

His face was bland. “I would never make that announcement before passing it through Council.”

“You told him something,” I pushed, “Because when you announced it, he looked grateful.”

“How else should he look?”

“Surprised. Relieved. Tearful, maybe. There was none of that; he knew he wasn’t going to die this morning.”

We were walking already down the corridor, the throne room having emptied out already. A servant or two passed in the interim between the study and an open aviary, the one Kougaiji had told me his great uncle inspired; it was noisy with birds. He stepped into it and I followed, hearing the gilded door click shut behind us. Everything within was thick with foliage and warmer than the rest of the palace, misty. The birds, I gathered, were all tropical rarities, bright plumage streaking across the neat squares of skylight. I saw some were open, and reasoned that they must not fly far, or at least they knew where their food was, and returned regularly. 

The path beneath my shoes was damp but still firm, and the hot smells of perfume and bracken rose up off of the untrimmed gardens. I hadn’t ever seen this room, or passed it, and was easily turned around. A golden thing with an arrogant crest warbled from just overhead, looking at me questioningly. Kougaiji put his hand out and the bird touched it curiously before flapping off again. 

“Yes I spoke with him.” He said finally, stopping in what appeared to be the room’s center, marked by a quiet fountain, smaller than the one into which I had fallen upon my arrival. He sat beside it, back tight as a bowstring and probably lined in steel, but his eyes were tired. “When you mentioned this to me, I did pass word to Council early this morning, just before sunrise. All I told Goku was that he would not die. He’s very dear to me, and to Dokugakuji. What happened was…unfortunate.”

“What happened almost happens to every soldier out there.” I said it with more conviction than was due to me, given my total inexperience with the military. All I knew came from books, and none of them on this world. But Kougaiji didn’t disagree.

“Yes, but almost and happens are different. To prevent a mass exodus in severe circumstances…there are laws. And this is a severe circumstance.” He sat, and I joined him; the bench was small and rounded, almost a full crescent, and its base was dusted with tiny, fragrant white flowers. I could sense he needed to speak, and reined in my words, letting him. 

“You saw the majority of our troops march out. They are led by some of the best, the only better remaining behind, to guard the capital.” I knew who he meant, and saw the flash of concern in his eyes when he said it. “There must be some hope left. There is a story—that the first Sanzo told my ancestor, Seu-Ssydo, that there would only be war if the ancestral helmet gifted him were to come into contact with the scroll. The copper helmet has never been seen since, and I know this must mean my father can still escape. He’s not fated to be Ukoku’s tool for war.” He sounded so hopeful, basing everything on a report that might or might not have been historical, that I felt badly for him. Perhaps he sensed his own desperation, because he flushed, but didn’t stop. 

“If there is indeed any reason left in my father, anything left of him at all, they will seek it, find it. Root out Ukoku’s hold over him.” He turned to face me, his gaze plain and soft, and I thought I could smell something musky coming from him over the flowers, a cologne or oil. The leg of his trousers brushed my robes. 

“My father is a good king, Sanzo. He has been a good king since his ascension at age nineteen, when my grand-father died. Everything that you must hear…Ukoku is a great beast, a silver-tongued liar. It has always been this way, and I cannot say how he ensnared my father, but he has. The man responsible for ridding the prison of its talismans is not the same who raised me. He’s trapped, in there. You must know it.”

Suddenly he was so adamant, so intense, that I found myself nodding more out of fear than conviction. If he truly believed that, he was the last one in the castle. Perhaps in the country. I’d heard the others, they thought Gyumaoh a traitor, lured by power or immortality, the gifts Ukoku could bestow, using his own abilities to shred the carefully-placed wards of the last Sanzo, who was my own father. And when I thought of him, and what I would say in his defense, if it came down to it, I felt a pang of sympathy. Our circumstances were not so different, then.

“No one believed me when I insisted my father wasn’t gone, either.”

Kougaiji looked hopeful, “In your world, when he came to ours, they believed him gone?”

“They assumed he was dead. No one knew where. They thought I was mad, or sick, to keep looking. To keep on with his work.”

Kougaiji looked touched by the comparison, the attempt to reach out. He nodded. “They believe my father corrupt. All these years he has served them—and such faith they give in return! They so readily hailed _me_ as king, the most convenient thing, inexperienced and inept--”

“You’re not inept.”

“—and not ready. While their king still lives, they bow to another. I called myself regent for three months before giving in, letting them address me as they would. No one thinks he is redeemable. The kinder ones say it was none of it his free will, but he’s too far gone, by now. I want more than anything to betake myself there, to speak with him.” 

I sensed the fear in his voice, the doubt, and knew that he hated himself for it.

“But if they are correct, we will be nowhere. I have no heir, Sanzo. There is no one primed to lead if I die, but there will be no one _to_ lead if Ukoku does not. I never thought a month would feel this long. Here they sit, all of Erythros, hanging in the balance, while their king is enchanted and their prince fecklessly lingers in his palace, better-guarded than them all.”

I shook my head, and wondered who else had been privy to this self-doubt before. He knew better than to risk a panic, showing it to others. I doubt even his Council had seen. Dokugakuji, likely. Probably no one else. Did he think me the sort of priest to take confession ,or was I a confidante?

“Not so. Maintaining normalcy in a time of chaos is your duty; name me one who could do it better. You’ve assuaged the public without lying to them. Frankly, that’s more than any diplomat in my world has managed so far.”

He smiled a little ironically at that, perhaps thinking I jested. I knew he would be appalled, if ever our fortunes reversed themselves and sent him into twenty-first century America. “You’re kind. For your words and for listening to me. It isn’t my job to complain.”

“Everybody complains. I do it all the time. Especially about the dress.”

“They’re robes, Sanzo,” Kougaiji reminded me, rising up. I sensed he was embarrassed, the spell of carefully-moderated panic having passed. When he leaned forward, I saw the front of his shirt loose, one clasp undone for the humidity, hanging open to bare smooth bronze skin flecked in tiny scars, none of them the red tribal marks he bore on his face. Something glinted, turning in the sun, and I saw a pendant, thin and polished and gold, spinning on its hook. A bird—a sparrow, just like the design on the cloak. I drew him back before he could go far.

“Would you tell me why your Companions all wear sparrows on their backs?”

“Oh.” He smiled almost bashfully, giving the sense that it was a private story, but the ease with which he opened up about it indicated it was common-knowledge. I remembered reading somewhere that everyone liked a king with a few idiosyncrasies, an oddity or a curiosity that made him unique, that made generations later recall him fondly, weaving that trace of humanity in between battle stories. I thought of Alexander’s horse, Napoleon’s Merovingian bees, and then Kougaiji’s sparrows. 

“Every king has his own regiment, the Companions, chosen by him in youth, or thereabouts, to serve for life. It’s a distinguished position, and marked each generation by some personal emblem. My father’s was the ox; Rotsen and Xaja still wear the ox clasp, though their cloaks are mine now. I think it was suitable for him, that animal, wise and not quick to flee. For me, the sparrow. It’s been dear to me since my youth; I have a fascination with that bird. My companions thought it odd… You have them too, surely?” I nodded when he paused. “They’re not a particularly kingly bird, being rather small, plain-colored. In fact they mostly dwell around people, rather than in the forest. But they’re very versatile—ingenious little creatures. They’re not water birds, but they can swim if they need, and build from whatever they find. They’re strong enough, but more importantly, they’re clever. You said you have them too, where you come from. Do they mean anything to you there?”

“To me? No. But a long time ago, the Greeks used to associate them with Aphrodite.”

“Greeks? Are these your ancestors?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.” I only knew that my father’s line went back somewhere to France, and my mother had been Polish. Kougaiji looked surprised that I didn’t have a pedigree at hand. 

“And who is Aphrodite?”

“She was their goddess. Of love, beauty, that sort of thing.”

“She protects loved ones,” he said, and I shrugged in assent.

That seemed to please him, and I saw him touch the pendant at his neck. He wasn’t drawing my eye to it, and I knew he’d done it without thinking. 

“You wouldn’t rather the war god’s bird?” I teased.

“And what is that?”

“The vulture, is Ares’ bird. Athena’s is the owl.”

He chuckled, “No, I think I like your Aphrodite and her sparrow.” 

“Oh. Well, not _mine_.” I reminded him, unable to explain, in a world where culture was static, how much my own had changed since the time when men built temples to Aphrodite. My father used to say it was sad, so much devotion gone to waste all for discrepancies over names. 

“Sanzo.” His face was serious again, gentle and sad, and I heard the clang of heavy bronze earrings as he moved his head. “I’ve sent men out, as I promised. They returned to me just this morning.”

I was hopeful for a heartbeat, but stowed it away, used to the message on his face. He meant the scouting party for my father.

“I’m sorry. There is nothing—not a glimpse. They’ve questioned every village along that road, and some beyond.”

I nodded. “Thank you. For sending them. I know you don’t exactly have spares.” I wondered what that meant for me, for my father. Suddenly the hunting ground had doubled. Two weeks ago, I’d known he might be anywhere in the world, and now there were two worlds to search, more variables to sort through, and not a single clue more. People didn’t just disappear. They fell prisoner to others, to themselves, they died, but they didn’t _vanish_. Where was he now, and why, despite the magic Kougaiji insisted sat inside the scroll I wore, could I not find him? 

“You’re welcome. I would want the same, in your circumstances.” I remembered that his father was lost to him too, not physically, but as a person. He had transformed into something altogether foreign. 

Maybe I had let pity slide onto my face, because Kougaiji stirred. “There are things I must see to,” he said, standing again, and this time I didn’t hold him back. “Please, stay as long as you like. The aviary opens onto the back garden, which will take you to the fields. The dragons are there, if you like.” He smiled politely, but warmly. “If you need anything, I trust you already know…”

“Right, the robes are a master key,” I nodded, and the expression confused him, but he smiled and bade me good morning, promising to see me again before night fall. I took his advice and meandered across the back garden—he’d made it sound like a vegetable patch, when in fact it was at least two acres deep, tumbling with flowers and hedges and at least a dozen gardeners, all cheery because of the early hour and light rains. Those standing bowed, and those already kneeling with fistfuls of weeds lowered their heads respectfully when I passed. 

The heavy perfume of climbing clematis and petunia faded to the sweet scent of tumbled grass once I passed through the bricked archway that lead to a lea from which I could see the high domes of the stables. There were food animals grazing in the far distance, oxen and cattle and long-horned goats that would look more at home on a mountain, but the land underfoot was untouched, perhaps only for walking. Maybe the princess took exercise here. 

The long grass swayed and bent, too heavy to stand up straight and curling under at the tips, baring shiny green backs like the wings of insects. Flowers speckled the monotone monocot in bursts of yellow and white and fair violet, and occasionally one would snap, sending up a wave of heady perfume. Eventually the smells of the stables, carried on a strong breeze, overcame that, and I found myself wondering at the peculiarity of a dragon’s smell. It was almost like ice and brimstone, a curious combination. In the doorway, as if awaiting me, I found Hakkai.

“Sanzo.” He bowed neatly, but didn’t avert his gaze, which I appreciated. His hair was damp, monocle streaked with water, and I saw an upturned barrel in the corner, mud all around it. 

“Did you fall in?”

He chuckled and pretended to scold, “Hakuryu’s temperament. He dashed me with his water trough; not enough exercise, I should think. Maybe he misses you.”

I heard a clicking sound from within, the dragon, I thought, and watched Hakkai right the barrel. “Are you here to take him out?” He asked, sounding hopeful, thinking maybe I would stay. I recalled that his friend had taken the Companion troops out, the red-haired one who had looked uncertain of himself and tried to hide it with arrogance, and that maybe he was lonely. 

“Yes. But not just yet. Do you have time to speak, if I follow you about?”

“Plenty of it.” Hakkai promised, looking to me curiously. “You mean to ask me about the last Sanzo, your father, don’t you?”

I blinked, glad that he was at least ready to offer up the information, that I wouldn’t have to wheedle it from him. “Yes.”

He nodded, leading me deeper into the cavernous stables; the ceilings, domed and hung with scented plants, soared overhead, plenty of room for the dragons to walk about as they liked or stretch out their wings, though perhaps not all the way. They were taken out for flight daily, I guessed, by the disturbed hay on the cracked stone floor. 

“He didn’t ride like you.” Hakkai said, sweeping and neatening a path so that the crumpled grass and feed didn’t cling to the hem of my robe. “He was a poor rider, if you don’t mind my saying so. But one could hardly blame him, considering he’d never seen a dragon before. How does one learn without practice? Your own abilities are rather extraordinary.” The broom was cast aside, and he led me down a narrower corridor, nudging open a wooden gate to a spacious sort of pen, everything oversized and smelling of heat and cold and hay. Hakuryu was curled up at the corner in a half-doze, and I hadn’t thought his body could contract so much. He looked comfortable. 

“But he had such wit. Though I’m sure you’ve heard it said before. We have a strategy game here that, if I flatter myself a bit, I am rather good at. He mentioned it was something akin to what you call a chess.” My father had always been excellent at chess. “I thought I would go easy on him, teaching him to play, since he’d never seen it before or heard the rules. Three moves in, I knew better, and he had me beat in record time. He beat Kougaiji too. Needless to say they played many rounds—Kougaiji is competitive, though not a poor loser. Which is a good thing, because he never did win.”

I smiled a little, knowing from experience how it felt to be on the other side of the board. My father was always ten moves ahead of me, no matter how many times we played, and I wasn’t bad at it, either. 

“I sense,” Hakkai continued, drawing out a length of Hakuryu’s wing to spread with some sort of oil he’d produced from a vial, like washing a horse, “That he was this way in most things academic. That is what he did in your world, isn’t it? He was a scholar?”

“Yes. An archaeologist.”

“A studier of ancient things, he said.” Hakuryu shifted slightly in the hay and yawned widely, rows and rows of ivory and yellowing teeth exposed for a moment, guarding a sensitive, translucent mouth and gum line. He snorted and eyed me, almost bobbing his head in respect. 

“He said,” Hakkai continued, “That when he would dig underground to find the past—you abandon cities often, in your world?—that it was always his greatest challenge to imagine how they lived. He said you were rather good at that, yourself. In fact he spoke a great deal of you, you and your languages. How many must you have, in your world?”

“Thousands. No one knows them all. Many are dead and lost.”

Hakkai marveled quietly, and I was equally astonished that his had so few.

“Did he ever speak of going home?”

“Oh all the time. I always assumed he had.” He frowned. “Kougaiji told me. I am sorry, that he never returned.” His brow furrowed, and he quieted, perhaps thinking he had offended me. “When he left, it was by the main road, the one that runs toward the coast. He said it was the way he came in, and undoubtedly the way he would go home.” 

“He didn’t come through the fountain?”

“The fountain?” Hakkai grinned, “Is that where you fell?” I nodded, and he chuckled. “No, he came from the sea after a storm, they said. Just walked right up out of the waves, scared a group of night-fishermen half to death. When they realized who he was, they took him straight to the palace. That was when Gyumaoh still reigned. He served a month, and then went back to the sea. He didn’t seem to have any doubt that he would be taken back, and naturally none of us did. It has always been this way.”

I imagined that long track of road, knowing from watching the army advance across it, disappearing into the horizon, just what it looked like. And I imagined my father, a tiny figure in foreign clothes, probably jeans and a dated Stones t-shirt, moseying along it. He would be pausing to look at a foreign plant or animal, greeting people he didn’t know and forgetting how he had saved their lives. The road was a long one, where had he gone? Had everyone been right all along, all the policemen, the distant relatives who wanted nothing more than to move on and forget—did someone snatch him up and make him disappear, but in this world, rather than my own? Had he vanished twice? 

“Your worry for him tells me you’re very close. How is that?”

“How is what? Aren’t you close to your parents?”

Hakkai smiled. “No. I don’t know them. I believe they may be dead.”

I balked. “I’m—sorry.” The apology betrayed my uncertainty and surprise, and that made him smile. 

“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. It is very difficult to mourn for people you never knew, though I’ll admit, sometimes growing up it was lonely. Ah ha,” He smiled again, “but that’s how I got my job here. Dragons like lonely people, I suppose. They respect solitude, and those who are willing to give it to them.” He gave Hakuryu’s wing a pat, and the dragon snorted in agreement or amusement. The oil, I saw, was being applied not to the entire wing, but to the joints. I’d thought Hakuryu was a young one, and said as much.

“He is, but this is for his health. You’ll fly him, won’t you?” 

Hakuryu looked _hopeful_ —my God, a dragon with expressions!—and I shrugged and said I would, watching him open his mouth in another half-yawn. 

“So where do you live now?” I asked casually. “Here in the stables?”

“Yes; I’m always on call, being the only one they trust if injured. Dragons are incredibly irascible when they’re wounded, and they like to see a familiar face. Like people.” He saw me looking around, and pointed upward. “There is a small apartment above in the loft where I keep house. It seems bigger than it is now, with Gojyo gone.” That was the redhead’s name!

“He rooms with you?”

“Not officially. He’s a general; he has a home and a place in the barracks. He can’t keep a cook, though, and can’t boil water without burning it, so he dwells here. The company is nice, and he does help me exercise the dragons.”

I looked at him curiously, thinking that the relaxed way he spoke of their circumstances was almost forced. Either the redhead was a greater imposition than he was letting on, or—

“We’re lovers.” Hakkai supplied easily, perhaps noting my expression. 

I swallowed uncomfortably around air and said, “Oh.”

“It really isn’t common knowledge,” Hakkai warned. “He’s something of a womanizer, and his brother expects that he will marry. Maybe he will.” 

“I don’t gossip.”

“No, I didn’t suppose you would.” Hakuryu stirred under his touch, perturbed, and Hakkai smiled thinly. I saw worry there. Gojyo had left the morning before, and would by now be boarding the ship to take him past the waters of Glaukia to Melorodon. Kougaiji had shown me a map, and it looked a long journey. If Ukoku were still imprisoned, they would have no one to fight against, and only a castle to guard until the inevitable, which they would give their lives to stave off while I waited uselessly on the moon’s growth. No wonder Kougaiji paced like a caged lion. 

“Can Ukoku do anything,” I ventured, “if he’s still trapped behind the seals?”

“To some extent,” Hakkai said softly, “He can lure people forth. But that’s why Gojyo has gone, to see to it that anyone who might may die before falling to that fate.”

“Kougaiji mentioned an army.”

“He can summon one, out of dirt, if he likes. That’s what the legend tells of, that he did this centuries ago when the first Sanzo fought him. But he must be free to do that, or have a host who might do it for him. King Gyuomaoh would serve, for a time, but it would weaken him substantially, and make the removal of the wards impossible.” 

Kougaiji had mentioned that before too, that his father’s power would only suffice for so long, before he crumpled under the weight of Ukoku’s. Even the strongest host body couldn’t work forever. _That_ was why he couldn’t go to Melorodon, no matter what. If Gyumaoh died, he would inherit his powers and be the perfect stepping stone for Ukoku. I wondered how he did it, did he possess a man, as they say spirits can, or did he only drain his energy, feeding off of it until he could find another host? And how likely was it he would raise the army, if it would sap the power of his only viable body? Perhaps he anticipated Kougaiji would come running at the news and that he might take him over from there?

“I don’t think,” Hakkai said, as if reading my thoughts, “That he is foolish enough to risk that. We could destroy that army, or keep it at bay long enough that Ukoku would sap his host dry in the process. He knows Kougaiji is no fool. What he likely plans is to free himself at a pace more amenable to Gyumaoh’s strength, and then inhabit him. By that point, an army would be a little superfluous, more of an accessory than an actual tool.” He gave Hakuryu’s wing a pat and stood, wiping his slick hands off on the front of his jerkin, which was guarded by a leather apron. “But no one really knows. This has never happened before, and Ukoku’s freedom has not been an issue since the beginning.” 

Our conversation tapered off when Goku dashed through the door, breathing hard and flushed in the face. He wore a muted green cloak and doeskin trousers, a few inches too short, though hidden mostly by his boots. I thought the sage color looked like the borders of my own robes, and was certain his porphyry belt was an exact match. So monks dressed alike here, too. At least they didn’t have to shave their heads.

“Sanzo!” He bowed, still breathing hard, “Sorry for bein’ late.”

I hadn’t known he was coming at all, but his smiling presence seemed to undermine some of Hakkai’s melancholy, so I was glad for him. 

“I hadta get my robes, and then Lady Lirin stopped me in the halls. Oh! And I brought this.” He drew out a paper-covered pastry, the white cake I’d seen the princess bring before, and held it out for Hakuryu, whose long tongue enveloped it and drew it past the portcullis of his front teeth. He made a chirruping sound, oddly high-octave for such a massive creature, and shuddered so that his scales clicked together. It seemed to be a thank-you, and Hakkai was smiling again.

“Didja want me to wait here, Sanzo, or go back and prepare your rooms?”

“Prepare them for what? Are we having a séance?”

“A what?” Goku blinked. “And I don’t know. But isn’t that what servants do, prepare the rooms?” He looked lost, and I remembered he had only ever been a squire, carrying weapons and polishing armor. I knew as much as he did about this sort of work.

When Hakkai stepped back, Hakuryu rose, shaking hay and dust from his scales and the crevasses of his wings and looking impatient to be on the move. His red eyes were on me, reminding me of the promised flight, and I looked to Goku with interest.

“Do you ride, Goku?” 

TBC

A/N: Please let me know what you thought : )


	6. Chapter 6

I spent the day in my study, going over monotonous things to calm myself, land tract applications, hereditary disputes, things that happen every day, even at the dawn of war, and must be taken care of. It was calming, and although the pace of my work was swift and my signature almost completely illegible, the familiar pattern pacified me and eased my racing pulse after the strenuous night. I hadn’t slept but a few hours, and even then was plagued with unhelpful dreams. Sad dreams.

I’d gone to see Goku a little after four, unable to let him lie awake any longer and contemplate a disgraceful death. I was supposed to speak first with the Assembly of it, so I was unable to tell him the nature of his release, only that he was not to die. I’d never been afraid to enter a room before, but I’d been in terror of even knocking, horrified at the thought of seeing naked betrayal on his face. I was the one sentencing him, his friend, who had trusted and knighted him a Companion, and whom he had trusted in turn. To my surprise, when I knocked, there came no answer, so I’d gone in on my own. 

He wasn’t asleep—I couldn’t imagine he would be—but sitting at the base of the bed, his back to the hard footboard, neck balanced against a carved ridge. He was staring out the windows, the curtains of which hadn’t been closed, and seemed not to see me until I spoke. When I did, some quiet greeting, he knew me and put himself at my knees, reaching a hand up as if in the gesture of a supplicant. I thought he would beg for his life, but he was begging my forgiveness instead. 

He hadn’t known what came over him, what had induced him to run. The panic, he said, had been so all-encompassing; the wrongness of it had shaken him. He’d thought to escape, and never much farther than the few steps he could see in the dirt in front of him. He said he’d never contemplated simply not going back—it was his life. Likewise, he hadn’t contemplated what it might mean for me, either. 

“It was never my intent to shame you,” he breathed shakily, and I sensed they were not his words. There was a plea there, after all. “I can’t do it. The dishonor of it—I would rather die at your hand, and here.” I knew what he meant, being made an example of, the first deserter—the first major war—in decades. 

“I would rather you didn’t die at all,” I told him, “And you won’t.” 

He was uncomprehending and expressionless for a time, staring up at me. “How not?” He finally breathed, pulling himself back from the settled notion of death, from the shores of Glaukia. His hands were still on me, my knees and my arm, and I drew him up, almost a head shorter, and suddenly light as a bird.

“I cannot say. But rest easily. You won’t die tomorrow.”

There was a flash of regret and shame beneath the relief, but he was too young not to grasp at life when it was offered. Pride, at that age, could be nurtured and grown again. If he were older, I don’t know that he would have preferred anything to a swift death. 

“I don’t know how to begin begging your forgiveness,” Goku murmured to me, “But I do. I beg it.”

“Put that aside for now,” I told him, “I am not your king, but your prince, and I don’t know that I am fit to give it.”

“I’ve disgraced myself. The others know it. I know it.” His voice was a tired mumble, and I realized just how little sleep he’d had in the past twenty-four hours. My hands touched his shoulder, strong but very narrow, and turned him gently to the bed. 

“It’s not so much as all that,” I said quietly, “You act as though you’re the first to err.”

“To err!” He turned, his cloak flying out in an arc of white. “And what I did--!”

I didn’t know how to console him, or whether I even should. Instinct drove me to it; he was so young. “Perhaps you will find reason in it yet,” I offered gently, retreating from his touch, his desperate gaze. “Judge yourself, and mourn this, but don’t carry it forever, Goku. The punishment you give yourself is crueler than anything I could inflict, and that is because you’re honorable.   
You will do more,” I predicted, “and this will fade into the background. The trouble is bearing up under it now.” 

He looked unconvinced, and when I bade him goodnight, I heard him say, “I can never make this right.” 

Who was I to judge, who had taken his father’s crown while the king still lived? Who had held his most apt general back and damaged his pride for personal gain? I remembered Samuel’s words from the aviary, and his hot-eyed dissection of our   
customs, demanding Goku’s freedom. Perhaps he hadn’t invented it at all, and only believed he had. His presence and his startling perspective were certainly a godsend, and there is no one in the land who would believe a Sanzo is not holy. 

As I was wiping a damp cloth over the well-used table of my signet ring, cleaning the wax and ink from the intricate design and the etching about the gold band where it had dribbled, the door swung open without more than a light tap. 

“Dokugakuji.”

He carried a sheaf of fresh documents, but laid them aside, handing me only one, a rather thick packet, tied up neatly with a ribbon. 

“A messenger,” he began in a wry tone, “brought it all the way to the palace gates. Insisted you have a look at it, on its importance, on _his_ importance, and that the dispute be resolved posthaste.”

I smiled around a falsely serious expression, clipping the ribbon off and unraveling the document to glimpse through it, letting Dokugakuji circle the desk and lean over my shoulder to read the spiraled handwriting as well. I recognized the name. 

The man was a nobleman, recently wed. I remembered when he had applied for a marriage license. It was not something I had to give my consent to, and certainly not something a king usually oversaw, it being strictly bureaucratic business, pertaining to taxes and the like. But it was custom for the official signature to be a royal one when a friend of the court, military or aristocracy, planned to marry. The acknowledgement was a social trophy, but demonstrated the king’s interest in the lives of his friends, and was, I thought, simply good manners. The approval and documentation were often accompanied by a wedding gift, and I recalled having sent them a fine horse, bridled in gold and draped beneath a well-worked saddle with rich silk. 

“Setisreht is nagging you again—I hope it’s not another marriage. That poor woman,” Dokugakuji was grinning almost into my ear, and I turned back to catch his eye, a dry smile still clinging to my mouth. He was intolerable at times, but a steady ally, having sent the men of the town he held sway over out before any other when he heard of the call to march to Melorodon. He offered to go himself, but only for manners’ sake, being well into his seventies. In his stead, he armed and armored half of his men and sent supplies with all of them. Two of them were sons from previous marriages, and five grandsons. I reminded Dokugakuji that he was, in all fairness, heavily invested in the war.

“True enough. I think he might even muster up the energy to go marching off with them, if there were anything worth pillaging in Melorodon.”

I frowned, but only half-heartedly, thinking he was likely right. Glancing through, I found that the introductory document, long-winded though it was, had some merit. I read aloud his complaints, a question of property division, and Dokugakuji looked only distantly amused by Setisreht’s hypotactic prose until I mentioned the name of the man with whom he was quarreling. 

“Soálenem!” He thundered, “The man wouldn’t cheat you out of a thimble of grain, much less twenty full acres! He’s mad.”  
I blinked, looking between Dokugakuji and the paper at which he was directing a furious glare, cracking his knuckles in an old habit that indicated impatience.

“You know this man?” I admitted to myself that the name was familiar, very distantly, but I couldn’t recall how I’d come to know it. I turned through the pages that accompanied the complaint, finding land grants dating back long before my time, detailing the extent of property lines and transactions between the families over the years. The signet ring had stamped it a generation ago; Setisreht’s land had been a gift from the crown, and Soálenem was claiming it as his. It was farmland, or I doubt they would quarrel so heartily over it, but still a piddling amount to either family, and more an issue of pride and high tension than crop production. 

“I know him.” Dokugakuji affirmed. “He is Yaone’s own father! Surely you remember him—when she was knighted, brought to court, he was there. Shortish, but stalwart. Red hair, brighter than yours,” he added, and then I did recall, because so few had it. 

“Yes I remember his face. I’ve not heard from him since.” In fact I heard very little from Yaone, who submitted most of her ideas in the Assembly through writing, choosing to hold her silence during meetings. It was unusual but not unheard of to have a woman on the Assembly; my father had had two, both of whom died during my youth, but never one so young. And she was a modest girl.

“You must know Setisreht would lie to a priest for a copper coin—there’s no chance he’s telling the truth. That or he’s telling it, but hiding the greater part of the story to make Soálenem out to be a liar.” 

“You’re awfully antipathetic to his complaint. How well do you know Soálenem?” Obviously it would all have to go through court, but I was curious about the reaction it had provoked. 

“Very well,” Doku insisted, “And I would deliver the summons myself, if I might.”

I drew paper forth to write them up, inclining my head. “Of course, if you wish it. I did not know you were so friendly with him.” 

“Of late.” Dokugakuji said vaguely, watching my hand scrawl across the paper. “I’ll want to see his documentation too, likely the genuine articles.”

“A court will have to sort it out. I do not have the expertise. I think it’s a rather trivial thing to muddy up the system with, myself, but men of great property have long been men of great pride.”

“Just remember that it isn’t Soálenem hounding you with complaints.”

His defensive stance made me wonder, but I nodded. “I’ll remember it.”

When I dipped the ring in ink, pressing it down onto the bottom of the paper and then into wax, sealing the document with it, Dokugakuji accepted the scroll, holding it delicately in one powerful hand. I saw the raised calluses where a spear or sword hilt would rest there, knowing them rather well. I had my own.

He seemed about to tell me something, looking at the summons, my ink-stained ring, and my face, but the door flew open to reveal an anxious guard, apparently suffering from such a fit of nerves that he’d forgotten how to knock.

“Yes.”

“Sire. You’d best come quick. To the gardens.”

We were both up and moving before he could explain, and Dokugakuji had the thought to drag him along behind us, demanding what had happened.

“The fountain, Sire. A servant was feeding the fish when she found it, and it gave her quite a shock.”

“A shock? What is it?”

“An electrical shock, Sire,” the guard stumbled after Dokugakuji as we rounded the hall and flew down the stairs. “She found it right where the priest fell in. Or out. I don’t rightly know what it is Sire.”

We exited through a flower-webbed side door, approaching the fountain where another guard and the shivering servant girl stood, both looking warily at the object on the fountain’s edge, still glistening wetly in the hot sun. It was a bice-colored circle, concave, and almost like a bowl. I reached for it, and the girl protested, shaking her head hard. 

“It’ll shock you, m’Lord!”

It didn’t look harmful now, and when I brushed my hand along it, stretching cords of magic across its surface to feel for any excess energy, I sensed nothing. Picking it up, I found it heavy, and turned it over. The sides were rough, and the color wasn’t its natural state. 

“It looks like a malachite deposit there, Sire,” the guard spoke gruffly, shifting and waiting for dismissal. 

“Yes. Over copper.” I murmured, running my fingertips across the smooth interior, hollow and skull-shaped.

“The Sanzo priest brought it with him, didn’t he Sire? Is it a bowl?” The servant whispered.

“No.” I knew what it was, and traced the place the strap and crest would once have been. No one in our family had ever seen it since. “It’s a helmet. A copper helmet.” I looked helplessly to Dokugakuji, and felt something snap free in my chest, a great surge of panic. His hand was steady on my shoulder, squeezing hard, and I knew it was only our present company that kept him from turning it into an embrace, from catching me. I fought gravity and wondered vaguely if this was how Sanzo felt first arriving, the significance of it all making even the air heavy. 

_This is it. There won’t be time. He isn’t going to restore the talismans. He’s going to have to fight. We’re going to have to fight._

Gripping the ancient thing hard between my hands, trusting its strength, I relayed that pressure into my voice. “There will be a change of orders. Someone should send for Sanzo.” 

 

\----

Hakkai had called Hakuryu back with what looked like a Panpipe but acted more like a dog-whistle, sending the dragon hurtling back in a U-turn toward the stables. Goku clung hard to my waist in surprise, and I gripped the ivory scales below, shouting out a warning. I saw the ground come closer, and found myself wondering if I would ever get to experience what qualified as a normal, or at least “safe” landing on one of these beasts. Hakuryu hit the ground hard, and I saw Hakkai waving madly at us, though Goku got to him first, not hampered by robes. 

“What the hell Hakkai? He nearly shot out from under us!”

“Hakuryu would never drop a rider,” he retorted smoothly, “And the king has sent for you. It’s urgent, and he’s in the gardens. You can take Hakuryu.”

I mounted again, cautiously, and Hakuryu darted off with a squeal, flying near to the spires of the castle. A guard hollered at us, and Goku, hands still occasionally flitting to my shoulders and waist in nervousness, pointed out where we would be landing. There was no space for a dragon, so he alighted just outside the garden walls (safely, this time), and let us off to dart through the tall grasses and under the rose-lined gates. I slowed my pace, remembering in the nick of time to act dignified, and that running in what amounted to a dress was virtually impossible for the male sex. 

Kougaiji and Dokugakuji were by the fountain, and a guard was leading a woman away with frizzed hair and shaky limbs. She looked as though she’d had a fainting spell. The king held something in his hands, and when we neared, I recognized the malachite bowl from the dig site, the one that had sent electricity pulsing through me. 

“Sanzo.”

I stopped, and Goku paused a few feet behind, bowing a little. 

“Where did you find that?”

“I didn’t; a servant found it in the fountain. Where we first found _you_.”

“That makes sense enough,” I reasoned, “I had in my hands when I was hit by the lightning. It’s malachite—a great conductor. I shouldn’t have been messing with it in the storm.”

“You’ve seen this before?” Kougaiji demanded, and I failed to understand his urgency. Did he get wound up over everything, or was this another one of his omens?

“Yes. It’s mine. Sort of—I found it, I mean. At the dig site where I was struck by lightning. It was…glinting at me. What do you think it is?” He let me hold it again, turning it over in my hands. In the clear light of day, I saw that the malachite was poorly formed, deposits made over a different base, probably copper. It was rough all around, and the ridges that had made me think it a bowl were broken up. 

“I take it it’s not a Cherokee artifact?” I drawled, watching the severe line of his mouth dip into a grimace.

“No.” Kougaiji swallowed. “It’s the cap of a helmet, missing its strap and crest.”

I frowned, “That’s highly unlikely. The peoples of that area didn’t wear helmets, and it was too far underground to--”

“It does not belong to your world,” Kougaiji interrupted, “That helmet was a gift to your ancestor, the first Sanzo, from my family’s line. We agreed to keep the sutra safe and gave in exchange Seu-Ssydo’s ancestral armor.” I remembered his telling me of it before. 

“Your ancestor,” Dokugakuji said, “Told us to expect war the next time the two objects came together. So far they never have. We thought we would never see the helmet again. And here you’ve brought it back with you.”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t even know I’d been holding it the whole time—it’s just been lying in the fountain?” I looked to the aqua tiled base as if expecting to see something else from my world, some other shred of modernity. “And what do you mean, war?” Kougaiji hadn’t been specific, and I hadn’t pried for details at the time, not putting much stock into prophesies out of habit, though current circumstances suggested I ought to start. 

“It means,” Dokugakuji said impatiently, ignoring his king’s warning glance, “That Ukoku is going to break free. You’re going to have to do battle with him.”

“That might present an issue,” I hissed, “I’m a _linguist_. I don’t know how to hold a sword.”

“That doesn’t matter; a sword would do you no good. Everything you have is in the sutra.” Kougaiji reminded me.   
“Which you don’t know how to use,” I accused them in frustration. “And I sure as hell don’t. I’ve never even seen this chicken scratch that it’s covered in, and I know it’s not Indo-European. I can’t read a bloody word of it.”

Kougaiji clenched his jaw, and I saw a muscle ripple there. “The words are a guard, not a spell. Everything you need, you already have with you. I don’t know how I can teach you to work it when I am not myself a priest.” 

“Well that’s just perfect,” I seethed, “I think flinging me at his castle with a catapult would make a better offensive than waving this scrap of paper around.”

“It is not a scrap of paper!” Kougaiji snarled, but sounded desperate, flinging his arm forth as if to grip it and shove it in my face, though his hand stopped inches short, not touching it. My glare matched his. 

“Whatever it is,” I bit out, “I don’t know how to use it. Playing guard is one thing, but I am not going to charge into battle. Just because some stupid helmet appeared doesn’t mean anything.” I sensed that the leeway Dokugakuji was giving me because of my status was being quickly used up by my impertinence toward his king, but couldn’t quite shut up. “There’s no record of how the damned thing works, and outside of when I first put it on, I haven’t felt so much as a shiver from it. How do we know it’ll work at all? You’ve already told me what this guy’s capable of—what he does to people. I don’t want to exsanguinate in his bathtub so he can pull a Bathory and try to regain lost youth!”

Kougaiji was momentarily confused, but blinked it away, shaking his head. “That is not what he would do with you. He _cannot_ do that to you. Only a Sanzo’s power can match Ukoku’s. Everyone here,” he said lowly, “ _every_ one is dependent upon your valor now. The gods sent you to us the way they sent your father.” He was appealing to my own pathos, and hitting all the right buttons.

“Believe it or not Kougaiji, I have a _life_ back home—I’m not some magical priest, I have a fam—I have friends,” I said wearily, wondering if he could hear the lie. I had so few allies, and fewer friends still. No family to speak of, not anymore. Maybe I was fighting so hard because I knew if something did happen, no one outside of my crew at the site would notice. It might come late, but they would still get paid, and then they would forget. “I have people who depend on me.” I _might_ , I thought. My father might be there. He might be here. Wherever he was, he still needed me, didn’t he? If I died, who would continue the search?

“You have people who depend on you here,” Kougaiji said softly, fervently. “Hundreds of thousands of your people who depend on you. Their lives.”

“They’re not my people!” I protested, and he must have heard the accusation in my voice. _It’s your job to save them. You’re their king, aren’t you? I’m just a glorified tourist._

“But they _are people_!” Kougaiji shouted in rebuttal, and I felt the power in his voice, realizing with a start that I’d never truly seen him angry. He was of a pacific demeanor, but when it broke, his octave dropped and his tone thundered, carrying its reverberations over my skin and raising hackles. “They are people who _need_ you, who are going to _die_ ,” he hissed, getting his voice back under control with no small amount of effort. I saw Dokugakuji had taken a step back, given him space. “What I can do is very little now. I can fight for them, die for them, but in the end it’s going to take _you_.”

His pride was in that, crushed, and I hated how he kept presenting me with it, as if it were all up to me to repair. He looked at me as if he thought I _could_. I didn’t like that dependency; I couldn’t even find my own father, what made him think I could bring back his? 

\------------

Later that night, Goku scurried between my room and his, bringing a strange-scented, spiced tea and some of the white cake Hakuryu liked so much that was entirely too sweet. His orectic nature led him to think that any sort of distress could be solved with food, and kept carrying in trays of various dishes until he realized I wasn’t even remarking on them anymore, content to sit in the niche of the window and watch the night rise. Even the stars here were foreign; funny how I’d never noticed that before. None of the constellations were familiar to me.

“Aren’t you gonna eat, Sanzo?”

“No. You have it.”

I heard his breath hitch; he was glad, but held off for the moment. “I heard about the helmet.”

“Yes.”

“Heard that you’d seen it before.”

“Yes.” I had thought about that, and the context in which I’d first found it. It wasn’t from our world, Kougaiji insisted, and yet somehow wound up under thirty-five feet of dirt just outside of Middletown, Virginia. And its location was marked out in my father’s ledger, hand-drawn without specifics, like fragments recalled from a conversation or an old map. How had he known where it was, what it was, and why had he sought it? I knew he couldn’t have written it after his arrival in Erythros; he’d penned the entire thing before his disappearance. It wasn’t, after all, his last great project, but a clue sent from another world. I didn’t know what to make of that, having hoped somehow that the findings of such a dig would lead me to him. Funny that they almost had; I was following a three-year old trail, but was fresh out of leads.

“How’d you find it?”

“A dig. I was performing a dig based on my father’s notes. Somehow he had known just where it was buried, and how deep. I wish he would have found it before he disappeared. If he could have explained it, _talked_ about it, I might have more of a clue than Kougaiji’s doomsday predictions.”

Goku scrunched up his nose at the mockery; I could see him in the window’s reflection, now that he’d lit another few oil lamps. “It’s a serious one. Everyone knows about Seu-Ssydo’s ancestral helmet. And maybe your dad explained it as much as he knew how to already, with the notes.”

“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “They were unusual enough, no details, no particulars. He’s usually more organized. And he never mentioned starting on it.”

“Maybe he never meant to,” Goku suggested, and I found he had slid the teacup back into my hand and was working on balancing a saucer and biscuit at my thigh. “Maybe it wasn’t really for him at all. Maybe he meant for _you_ to find it.”  
“My father loves puzzles, but for something this serious, he would have been explicit.”

“Not if he didn’t know how.” 

When I sipped the tea, he grinned encouragingly. “He didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, and he didn’t exactly know he was gonna get taken to Erythros, right?”

“Hn.”

“So.” He shrugged, “Maybe he meant it for you. Just in case. And it did bring you here, didn’t it?”

“Coincidence,” I hypothesized, and Goku shook his head so hard the tray rattled. I saw he was nudging a jelly-covered pastry off onto another plate for himself, and then ate it in two smooth bites.

“No s’vutch sing.” He crunched. “As coincidences.” 

After eating enough to sate Goku’s worry, I rolled back the heavy covers and small mountain of pillows over the bed, burying myself just as rain began to patter against the windowpanes. I’d extinguished every last lamp, glad for the darkness and familiar enough by now with the space that its shadows and creaks didn’t unnerve me. There were plenty of places for a person to hide, but there was only one door, and it made a hell of a racket when opened. I’d thought of assassins before, of course, but the castle was well-guarded, and I’d made good friends with Hakuryu. As far as I knew, there were no guns here, and without one, you’d have to be an idiot to go against a dragon. 

The bedding was soft and stuffed with some sort of downy feather, sucking me in and under like loose snow, but much warmer. I let the darkness swallow me and fell into sleep, immobile and careening into a dream. 

_My father stood before me, wearing not the loose white garb from the last dream, but his usual faded jeans and oversized t-shirt emblazoned with some dated band name and stained from a dig. We were underground, with only stretches of blue sky overhead, and surrounded by taped off sections of an excavation. I knew the grid patterns by heart; it was the first one he had let me help handle, my internship sophomore year of college. Cherokee sherds were all over the place, and a small velvet-lined case held chipped arrow heads and primitive tools as they were pried gently from the ground and dusted with a miniature brush that made me think of dollhouse furniture. They had no writing system, and their designs were primal at best, and dull to behold after our trip to Mycenae two years ago._

_At first I didn’t seem surprised to see him, as though it were expected, but then a sense of urgency prevailed, as it does in dreams, and I reached for his hands. He pulled away, and I saw quiet disappointment in his eyes._

_“Will you tell me what that meant, the map in your ledger? That unmarked site I spent years trying to find?”_

_“You know what it meant.” He said softly. “It led you here, away from your madness.”_

_“My madness?” I laughed, “The world wants to give you up for dead, and I’m the one who’s lost it?”_

_“You put me before any other thought, Samuel. You don’t take a step without considering how it will lead to my discovery. You’ve blockaded yourself, locked yourself into some fruitless search. I want you to stop--”_

_“No,” I said quickly, my ire rising. “How can you ask me to do that? How can you, when you_ left _me, ask me to stop looking?”_

_“You put me before so many people.” I knew what he was speaking of, and scowled._

_“They’re not my people, or my responsibility. You are. If I stop—you know what will happen. No one would ever find you.”_

_“Are you afraid?”_

_“No. Yes,” I corrected myself easily, “Of course I am. But you can’t tell me, of the twenty-nine priests before us, not one refused to do this, that not one stopped to say hey, what the hell, and I’m not going to fight some story book monster and risk my skin for a world that didn’t exist to me a week ago?”_

_“But they do exist, and I won’t be what holds you back.” He crossed his arms, and the usual, open smile on his face had fizzled out. He looked tired._

_“What if I fail?” I blurted. “I can wrap my head around dying, but what if I fail, and then everyone else does too? How does a person live—or die—with that kind of guilt?”_

_“I don’t know how to answer that,” my father said quietly, and I was thankful that he didn’t try to divert blame, to explain that my attempting it cleared me of guilt. It wasn’t that easy. What if I was meant for this, and couldn’t do it? What idiot god had sent me?_

_“Do you want me to do it?” I croaked, “Should I? Would it make you happy?” There was no cruel irony in the question; I wanted nothing more than to see him content, wherever he was. At some point I had forgotten it was a dream._

_“I want you to do what you feel is right, and it’s very important, when you do, that you do not think of me. You don’t have to.” And then he did smile, that careless, open-eyed expression that I had grown up with. “I’m already proud of you.”_

_He embraced me again, harder, and I felt very young. I had to ask it, “How did you know about this place, if you took these notes before you even disappeared?”_

_“You’re not the only one who dreams,” he murmured into my hair, “A voice said, write it down, and I did. I thought, if something were to happen to me…you would know where to go.”_

_“But I don’t,” I whispered. “I’ve searched.” His hands settled on my shoulders, gently, and I felt everything sink inside, pressing myself against him with a low sigh the way I had as a child. “Just tell me where you are. Tell me so I can come find you.”_

_His body tensed a little, and I felt him almost shrug, his embrace helpless and turning to air._

_“I don’t know.”_

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I think one person is reading this--thank you Mouse! <3

_It was less a dream than a memory; how many times had I seen him behind that massive desk, its scale perfectly matched for the width of his shoulders, the span of his large palms? I was dwarfed by it, and often did my writing in my own chambers, but he always maintained that there was something to be said for the separation of work space and that intended for repose._

_“Kougaiji.” He rumbled, but smiled beneath the heavy brown curls of his beard. “Come in.”_

_I was his first born, and it was only occasionally that I thought myself a disappointment to him, less so as I grew stronger and proved myself as apt a warrior as a diplomat. At seventeen, he’d already taken me to Melorodon’s shores (not onto its lands), and I’d handled minor rebellions on the western coasts. As a mage, I’d bested some of the highest ranking guards, and none of them seemed anything but pleased by it. A strong prince meant a strong king; I was their protection, and they expected it of me. On rare occasion, I’d seen the wide shadow of Gyumaoh watching me from the stoa, approving, and I was content._

_But I was not seventeen anymore. On that day, at twenty, I was to be crowned. It was nothing but a formality; my father had no other children near to my age, and as the first born, healthy and sound of mind, no one had doubted I would be made his heir. But for the sake of time-honored tradition and familial pride, a ceremony was held._

_“You sent for me.” I didn’t have to bow—he was my father—but once I took the crown, I would need to start, so I did so then, a polite dip that had my cloak dusting the polished floorboards. He chuckled, and I saw him draw open a desk drawer, plucking something out. He set it on the edge._

_“Do you remember this?”_

_It was a small toy soldier carved of maple and worn smooth by much handling; most of the paint had worn thin or chipped off, but he still carried his tiny sword and helmet. I smiled._

_“Yes.”_

_“It doesn’t seem so long ago to me that you were a boy.”_

_It felt like an eternity to me, but it always does, at that age._

_“I reviewed your submissions, for the Companion Guard. The Sparrows, is it?”_

_I smiled a little and nodded, resisting the urge to touch the pendant at my throat. “Yes.”_

_“Good selections, all of them. The men are of good families, and those that aren’t—well, I’ve seen them in the training yards.” I was surprised he’d made time, but of course he would have. My father juggled things seemingly effortlessly, and kept his hand in every pot._

_“Thank you.”_

_“Your captain.” At this he lifted his brows, and I resisted the color threatening to bloom just under my skin. For a man who saw me so infrequently, he knew a great deal._

_“Dokugakuji’s father served me in that respect as well. But I take it you’ve not selected him based on this commendation alone?”_

_He knew I hadn’t. “I trust no one in the field more than him.”_

_He made a_ hmm _sound and came out from behind the desk, dark in deep velvet clothes, unadorned except for the pin at his throat. It matched the earrings I wore; both were of a set, gifts from my mother. If Lirin’s mother had ever given him anything, one wouldn’t know it. She lived with relatives, and had ever since Lirin’s birth, being of a frail constitution and not much liked at court. Her daughter was nothing like her, and I never said ‘half-sister’ about Lirin._

_“How does it feel?” My father asked, pouring a drink from a crystal decanter, his mouth an unreadable line; he offered me one, and I accepted without tasting it. “Knowing you’re next to be king?”_

_“Terrifying.” I said point-blank, drinking deeply then, as if to prove it. I saw his face break out into a wide grin._

_“That’s the right answer.”_

_“I’ve taught you a great deal, but that isn’t the half of it.” He appraised my face, reading my expression between than even I could, and I wondered what he found there. Worth? Fear? Could both exist in the same place?_

_“Most is trial and error—though you mustn’t go about telling people.” I risked a smile, and it was well-received. “It is good to have doubts about yourself, Kougaiji.” He said simply, “but you must know when to wipe them away, too.”_

_“Do you?” I ventured quietly, “have doubts, about me?” This was directed not to the king, but to the man, my father._

_He raised his brows. “Do I have need to?”_

_“No, Sir.” I said._

_“There, then. You’ve answered your own question.” I must have appeared unsettled, unsatisfied, because he clapped a strong hand down over my shoulder, a blow that would have been staggering to anyone else, in battle. “That confidence in your voice, when you speak of the men you’ve chosen to guard you. When you speak of the man you’ve chosen to lead them, I have that in you.”_

_He could not have conferred upon me any greater pleasure than that._

_“The ceremony is tonight, but I suppose it will last well into the morning.” His face broke out into a grin, a jovial expression rarely seen, and he wheeled me about toward the door, “So get ready for it. And for the gods’ sakes, change that dreary cloak. This is an occasion for celebration.”_

_\-----_

_And it was. The ball room was opened and aired out, the floors polished to a shine. The great dining hall was filled with tables and chairs all spread in clean linens and topped with garlands of dried sage and rosemary, fortuitous and sweet-scented. All the rooms in use opened out onto the flagstone courtyard beyond, bursting with spring flowers and young grass. Benches were added, and small tables throughout the maze of flora. Competitions would be held further out, the walkway lined with torches and smoking incense. The court hall, too, was being arranged, cleared of furniture to make way for a great crowd. The carpets that led to the thrones were dragged outside and beaten, every mote of dust scraped from the heavy scarlet._

_Servants had begun the preparations days in advance; it was not unusual for a drinking party to be held, or a small festivity for a coming-of-age or birthday, but traditionally a crowning was the grandest of affairs. People still told stories about my father’s ceremony, Xaja especially, who won his famous shield in the contests that night._

_I enjoyed a festival, but I was not one for show, and outside of the pendants my mother had given me and Dokugakuji’s own, I wore very little by way of ornament. The signet ring, I thought, would be the only other jewel I would wear. I dressed in gold-trimmed scarlet, the shirt beneath the tunic a startling white, and wore on my outer cloak what would become my emblem, the profile of a sparrow in flight._

_Lirin ran about in a dragon hide’s worth of silk and lace, spinning so quickly that her skirts rode up and drove her nursemaids mad with worry. My Companions, who would be knighted in turn, were making preparations of their own, all already apprised of the situation. Dokugakuji especially. I had told him a week in advance, formally, but in truth we had known it forever._

_While I was pacing and making myself utterly useless in the hallways outside my chambers, I heard a light whistle, and he appeared from around the corner dressed handsomely in navy, the buttons polished gilt._

_“Why so anxious, Sparrow Prince?” He grinned, and I returned it nervously._

_“Why do you think?”_

_“Honestly, I couldn’t say,” he said, stepping up behind me and fiddling with my collar before placing heavy hands over either shoulder, lowering his head to speak into my ear. “No one is better suited to this than you. You have less right than everyone who came before you to be nervous.”_

_I flushed, looking back at him with wordless thanks._

_“Me, though._ I _get to be nervous.”_

_“Oh, now.” I frowned, “That’s hardly fair.”_

_“It’s perfectly fair,” Dokugakuji rebutted, walking around me so that he faced the portrait I had my back to. “I’m to spend the rest of my life protecting you. I’d do it naturally, but when it’s made into something official…well, one expects a king’s man to live up to him.”_

_“I have no doubts about you, and you shouldn’t either.”_

_He took my hand, catching it up in his much larger one, and pressed a kiss over the knuckles. I saw his eyebrows peak in half-jest before he released me._

_“Kinder than I deserve, Kougaiji,” he said. I didn’t know what he meant by it then, and I still don’t, today. At the time, it was teasing flattery, and I let it pass without thought._

_When evening fell, a pink-red light filtered in through the great hall, and the last of the sun came down in thick golden chains over the throne. My father made a fine speech when he entered, which I heard from the corridors. He was flanked on either side by rows of noblemen and knights, Suelep to his left, the chair at his right, my mother’s, empty. My Companions were knighted, and although I was not yet king, they would be made to swear loyalty to me now. It was longstanding tradition intended to foster stronger bonds between a king and his guards. I think its original purpose was to let men in power know where they stand before a prince ascends the throne to cut back on intrigue and mindless sycophancy. In either case, the rite itself was a moving one, or so I thought._

_When my father called for me, the first face I saw upon entering was Lirin’s, her eyes wide with excitement, but her face properly schooled. She was standing very still, not a wrinkle in her gown, but I saw her smile as I passed. My father wore a very fine suit in deep blue, his only adornment my mother’s pendant and, set off by the simplicity of his garb, the crown, a ridiculously heavy piece of metal used only in ceremonies like this one. It was constructed of thin vaulted points and a thick, weighty base of solid gold. Inlaid with sharp, malleable prongs were precious gemstones, cushion-cut and polished to a startling gleam. They almost look false because of their size, like faceted glass rubbed with oil. On a narrow stand near to him, in front of Suelep, was my own, hardly smaller and just as thick. I fell to one knee, arm over my chest, not as a suppliant, but a servant of the court. I felt the length of my cloak and cape spread out behind me, making plain the design, and I fancied I could feel Dokugakuji smiling at it from there. My father and I exchanged words, formalities, again, that I could parrot in my sleep. The sun was hot now, glinting cruelly off of the crown when he lifted it. I could feel their eyes on me, but it wasn’t that which made me nervous. Gyumaoh asked me if I willingly accepted the charge, to protect Erythros and its people as their crowned prince and, in the future, to give myself over to them completely as king._

_I said, “I do.”_

_When he pressed the base over my head, there was a brief, dizzying sensation, one that I always remembered thereafter. It felt like a vice, despite having been crafted to fit. For metal, it was searing hot, and squeezed at my temples. I felt the power it commanded as an emblem, and what it meant for me, but it was as though I had been charged with lightning, full of energy and ability, but placed neatly within a cage, or chained down. My father murmured to me, leaning forward, “Everything you do in your power and place as ruler, you do not for yourself.”_

_I said, “Yes,” and he released me to stand, an understanding between us, and the phalanx of nobles on either side flung their arms and weapons into the air and cheered. I stood for the oath from my Companions, and Dokugakuji knelt this time, pressing his mouth over my hand, where the signet ring would be one day. This time there was no dancing mirth in his eyes, no teasing. They were dark, the brown irises thin, and when he vowed to protect me, he meant every breath of it. It crippled my stomach, that sort of devotion, and a desperate part of me demanded that he sort it out, how much of that came from duty and how much of it from love, or were they at all different?_

_We were parted after the ceremony, and I met with almost every man and woman that had filled the hall, glad for their congratulations and well-wishing. After an hour, my father approached, amused, and clamped an iron fist down over my shoulder, cutting off Rotsen’s long speech midway._

_“Friend, it’s hard for us now, but I think I vaguely recall being young,” he drawled. “Let him have the night—he’s played to our social niceties very well, don’t you think?”_

_I colored, and Rotsen brayed in laughter, waving his hand. “Yes, go, go. Your father flatters me, putting us in the same age group.”_

_“Now I never said that,” Gyumaoh bellowed with amusement, and then Xaja appeared behind them, his spear butt tapping the tiles in protest as he asked something, and my father nudged me off and away, winking broadly. It was one of our closer moments, and I remember it fondly._

_The adjoining halls were crammed with guests and music and the thick scent of roasting meat and freshly split fruits. Wine was already well in circulation, and I was crowded anew by friends, buffeted from circle to circle, questioned and congratulated and teased good-naturedly. I made a point to seek out Lirin, walking out past the gardens with her to the training grounds and leas where contests were just beginning; Xaja’s brother Recuet was tossing a spear through thick hide shields to the cheering of a small group. We stayed to watch—Lirin had no love for women’s arts, and had always favored men’s contests. My father approved of this in his own way, and did nothing to discourage it. I stood with her while she watched, peeling back layers of a thick pastry that she kept in one hand on a china plate, licking the violet color from her fingers every so often._

_She said very little, until we turned to go in, tugging at my cloak and forcing me to kneel to meet her at eye level. Her young face, only eight then, was shortly serious._

_“When you become king, I’ll still get to be a princess, won’t I?”_

_I smiled. “Lirin you’ll always be a princess.”_

_“And when you’re king, Mama can come live in the palace too, if she wants, can’t she?”_

_It wasn’t Gyumaoh who forbade it, but he let her think that often enough, rather than try to explain that her mother had no wish to, and much preferred to live at a distance in the countryside with her family and without her responsibilities. I wouldn’t be the one to tell her either; it was the sort of thing a child realized gradually, the way I had realized my worth to my father was in the lucky order of my birth. He would love me no less, but I would feel his distance more, as a second child. That was likely why Lirin missed her mother; nursemaids were no substitute. I swallowed against the sudden cloud on such a day, giving her shoulders a light squeeze._

_“Naturally.” I said. “But I think right now,” I gave a nod over her shoulder to the two little girls, duchesses both, and good friends of hers, who were watching us. “Your friends will be wanting you. Unless of course,” I offered diplomatically, trying to hide the grin, “You would rather come back to the table? I’m sure Rotsen has a fine speech prepared--”_

_“Ugh no!” She squealed, trying to squirm out of my grasp. “No more speeches! I can’t sit still for those any longer!”_

_She whirled when I released her, turning to smile at her friends while popping the rest of the cake into her mouth. When she pressed a kiss to my cheek, it left a purple smudge behind. I saw her dress kick up at the pace of her run and silently wished her nanny the best of luck._

_My threat had not been an empty one though, it seemed. Rotsen did have a fine speech worked up, and the whole length of the table listened while our food lost its heat, cheering between mouthfuls as he finished it. There was music all night, and I did catch a number of the games, watching Xaja win anything involving a spear, and then one of my own Companions, Dokugakuji’s half-brother, took away a significant prize in grappling._

_“He’s been training,” I remarked, pleasantly surprised._

_“All that bullying had to pay off somewhere,” Dokugakuji assured me with a wink, and I felt his arm nudge mine when he passed, hailed by another._

_Starlight replaced the blue dust of dusk, and people filtered out into the gardens and the ballroom, dancing or congregating in small groups to remark upon the musicians’ choice in song. There was a good deal of drinking, and not a few contests broke out among the soldiers. I had more than a small amount myself, but I didn’t leave the hall feet first, nor did I pass the night in it._

_It was a few hours before dawn that I found myself on the cool flagstones of the garden, sitting at the fountain edge and plunging my hands into the waters to rake through my hair, forcing down loose ends and cooling the light pounding in the back of my head. The air worked remarkably well, and the wine was good, nothing as strong as the mead and honey the others had been at. Seeing my reflection as the water cleared, I flicked at the surface again to distort it with a frown. Did I really look so young?_

_“Hey.”_

_Dokugakuji had found me again; he took up a seat, placing a little plate between us that held some small brown wafers filled with fruit. I would have guessed he was eating to dull the effect of the drink, but his gait was quite steady and so was his gaze. He nudged the plate over in offering, and I grinned._

_“I am not drunk.”_

_“I didn’t say you were,” he lilted, “Can’t I share?”_

_“I have the oddest sensation that I’ve seen this before,” I teased him, remembering his birthday, “But you’ve had less wine this time, I think. Or perhaps learned how to handle it better.”_

_“Yes, I remember it. Offering you cake by the fountain. Ought to become a tradition.”_

_I bit into the cookie thoughtfully, “I am not averse to that.”_

_“I seem to remember something else.”_

_“I’m surprised you remember an--” He cut me off with a kiss, so sudden that it upset my balance and almost sent me sprawling into the fountain a second time, but his arm lashed out to catch me, bringing me back up and flush with his chest.  
“I won’t let you fall, Prince,” Dokugakuji murmured against the side of my throat, mouth just below my ear. His breath came hot against my skin, making the fine down at the nape of my neck rise up. When he kissed me again, slowly this time, I felt his tongue slide over my lips and past, tickling the roof of my mouth. I tasted wine, and strongly, and it made me dizzy again. One hand slid up his arm, gripping hard at the cloth of his sleeve to keep my balance as he pressed on, holding me in a careful embrace. _

_“I know,” I said quietly, listening to the pendant of my earring jingle when he ran it through his hands._

_“Should we go back?” He whispered, though there was no one around to hear us, and the music of the halls muted everything beyond._

_I hadn’t let go, and shook my head. “No.”_

_We kissed again, exploration giving way to enthused interest, and when his hand slid down the side of my chest, I made a decidedly un-princely sound._

_“Should we go…up?” He ventured._

_“Up?”_

_“Up…” He agreed quietly, his breath a hot mist against my throat, kissing a pulse point that made my body ache pleasantly, thinking of where else I’d like his mouth just then. “Up, inside. Up, to our rooms.”_

_“To my room?” I asked, fisting his short hair, keeping his gaze level with mine. He nodded, and I mimicked it. “Yes.”_

_At that hour, with the mass of the staff still on the ground floor, I don’t think anyone even saw us. We weren’t sneaking, but made no announcements of our whereabouts. My quarters were more convenient, and once we were through the day room, dark now and glittering in lantern light from the patio below the windows, Dokugakuji latched the white door. He pushed against me a little, kissing the corner of my mouth, the sharp line of my jaw where only a downy stubble had ever appeared, and then my throat._

_He said, “Prince,” and I looked at him, shaking my head, and took a few steps back, guiding him after. Following, his hands cupped my face and drew me back; I could taste the wine more now, strong on his tongue, and he pressed our foreheads together the way we had as children, breathing hard._

_“Kou.” There was nothing of children about our actions now, and I was shy to meet his eyes, finding only a thin ring of amber about wide pupils. He wanted. And he thought he had to ask; I almost laughed, dizzy with relief, and carded my fingers through his hair, kissing him fiercely and making him say it again, my name without the title. “Kougaiji.”_

_“Yes.”_

_The day room gave into a small antechamber with latticed doors that kept the heat locked in during the winter; beyond that, the bedroom. Dokugakuji pushed both pairs of doors open and left them that way, letting the massive space soak up our noises and echo them back at us later. They still echo, but I think I am the only one who hears them._

_Dokugakuji was nothing if not direct. He bore me back to the bedding; it was smooth and cool from the un-shuttered windows, but warmed quickly with use. We’d seen each other naked before; we were boys together, and had trained and swam and washed, but the context was different, and we were not boys any longer. His was a proud display of strength, all hard and darkened muscle and thick thatches of jet hair that smelled of musk; I put my face there, to the skin just below his navel, and kissed the crease of his thigh, feeling him twist in surprise, barking out a laugh. I smiled, and wished my hands didn’t shake so hard when I drew them down his body, watching him arch up to meet them, every expression so relaxed and controlled, not prone to the same startled gasps._

_There were things I wanted to do, had thought about doing, and he was patient, twitching a bit or letting out pleasant sounds of approval when I did something he liked, touched a sensitive place, and then it was his turn._

_He tumbled us, pinning me back to the bed again, and I slid a leg up to lock around his hips, breathing hard at the sudden pull of friction and he chuckled, smoothing a strong hand down my flank and then gripping. He drew my leg back and made me wait just as he had, exploring at an agonizing rate, his mouth searing and taunting and welcome everywhere it alighted. I knew what I looked like, nothing to match him for beauty, but he said pretty things anyway, almost courtly things, so that I gave his hair a sharp yank in reminder._

_“I am not a woman.”_

_“Oh, no,” he agreed with a breath, reaching between us to grasp the evidence, letting me, this time, slip my legs about his waist and keep them there. He was slow about it, but gentle, persuading me to relax with increasingly lengthy kisses until he realized he was swallowing my noises too, and held back. The unwinding was painfully gradual, and I thought of a corset, slowly coming undone as he slid the thread out of each eye loop, each one loosing another degree of my control._

_“I’ve never seen you like this.”_

_“No,” I agreed in a little gasp, “I’ve not…I’ve never.” He understood, and instead of expressing surprise, he looked pleased, satisfied, and leaned over me, joining us slowly so that I shouted, a low-octave, drawn out cry._

_“Good.”_

_We rucked up the sheets and then eased into the folds of them, and Dokugakuji drew it out in a way that testified to practiced skill. I said his name I don’t know how many times, and felt foolish for it later, but he never teased. Taking as much pleasure in his sounds as my own, I did what I could to wring them out, digging my heels into the small of his back to hear his breath hitch, tightening nether muscles to draw out long, low-octave groans. I climbed at a faster pace, but then he matched it, and we fell together, his heat and energy pouring off of him in waves that smelled of sweat and musk and wine. Crying out, I felt my control slip for just a moment, blacking the edges of the sheets with a startled gasp, mixing the scent of smoke in with the damp of love-making. Dokugakuji looked concerned, glancing at the singed coverlet; he’d never seen me slip in anger, but with passion I’d had less practice. When he realized there was nothing more than smoke to it, he smiled, coming to lie beside me, still touching and watching my fingertips closely for any other signs of flame._

_His hand slid again between my thighs, stroking lazily and eliciting softer moans. I saw his gaze settle on the pendant at my chest, the only thing I wore, and then he kissed it, pushing cold metal against my skin and then gradually warming it. “You’re certain you’ve never, Sparrow Prince?” He inquired, using my words. His smile said_ I don’t entirely believe you, _but I knew he was angling at flattery._

_Frowning, I turned to face him and run fire-warmed hands over his chest, up the strong lines of his face, I pressed my mouth to the hollow of his throat. “Very certain. And you said ‘good.’”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because,” he faltered, arms slipping about my waist, tugging my hair to draw my eyes up to meet his. He kissed me, and then the scarlet marks on my face. “You’re loyal. If there had been someone else, I would know there’d be no room for me. And maybe I’m just a little bit possessive.”_

_Raising my eyebrows, I grinned up at him; the idea of Dokugakuji’s protecting me on a public and private level both washed me in comfort. It meant he still wanted. “Shall I be possessive too, then?” I asked wryly, watching him in the dim light of the room to which my gaze had adjusted; every line of his face stood out, catching the faintest flicker of light from the windows. A breeze was dragging the heady scent of jasmine through, muting our own._

_“I hope you will.”_

_“Good.”_

 

 

 

 

The next day I sent Dokugakuji out with an official court summons for Soálenem’s evidence and testimony, and to inform him of my interest in the case because of who he was. In truth, I was preoccupied with serious matters and couldn’t entirely bring myself to care about grazing ground when so much hung in the balance. But it was important to Dokugakuji, so I made it count, thinking it was the least I could do, giving him something ordinary and safe to worry about, after having deprived him of his normal line of duty. I was still waiting for correspondence from Suelep and Xaja; they had crossed the great sea and ought, by now, to have reached the black soil of Melorodon. I remembered it very distinctly still, and wondered if the temperature was always damp and chilly, like living in the bogs. How was it that any of Erythros’ people had ever survived there? 

There was a shortage of manpower because of the expedition, so I spent the day divvying up those who remained to keep order in their respective hamlets. Most lords had left someone behind to guard their homes, if they had embarked themselves, but the majority of outlying hamlets and medium-sized villages were unprotected without so much as a magistrate to watch over them. I knew it was a risk, but such things were necessary, when one weighed the odds. I reviewed new recruits and sent them out to populated centers, using my experienced men sparingly, knowing their value and making sure they knew it too.   
The green ones were always overeager and quick in their zeal to pass out judgment. There was such a one in a small sitting room, a side-chamber just off my office, sent in for unlawful imprisonment. It had been a minor affair, and the fellow he’d sent away was locked up less than an hour, but the fear that could spark in a town was dangerous. I wouldn’t have my men abusing their power, but he was new to his duties and very young, and I thought so long as I scared him, he wouldn’t do it again. I certainly couldn’t afford to lose him, and I’d seen his records; he was a capable soldier. 

Before I could see to him, the door of my office opened after a brief tap, and I expected Dokugakuji for a half-second before remembering I’d already sent him off. It was Sanzo, sharp violet gaze on me and nothing else as he entered with a whisper of silk. He cut an intimidating figure without even realizing it. I still didn’t know why he insisted on calling it a dress or wearing trousers beneath it, but I thought it must be a custom of his people. 

“Sanzo.” I hadn’t heard so much as a whisper from him since last evening, and he looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept.

“I’ve thought about it.” 

I nodded, rising carefully from the chair as he strode the width of the room, almost pacing. “You realize you’re asking me to die, right?”

“I’m asking you to fight. But yes, I recognize the risks.” Semantics was beneath him, and I wouldn’t coax him like a child to do a man’s job. 

“Even though I don’t know how to do it, and even though we don’t know if it will work.” Sanzo continued, and I watched him walk, talking aloud like a teacher before students. 

“Yes.”

“Your father,” he said. “I saw the way your generals looked at you when you gave the orders. What if they can’t persuade him? What if he’s completely spellbound, or maybe just chose to do what he’s doing?” 

I didn’t want to admit to him that I was slowly persuading myself of the same thing, that he was far past the point of persuasion, so entangled in enchantment that no one could cut him free without destroying him. He was a creature of Ukoku’s, and I knew what was coming without allowing myself to be consciously aware of it every waking moment. I would go mad. 

“Then we will have to fight him also. In either case, I think we would do this.” 

“Fight your father too? I thought you said no one could kill him.”

“I said none of us could best him.” I looked at him. “You can.”

As he spoke again, his sharp voice suddenly grating on my nerves, I dug through a drawer after my ledger; there were still things to be done, things I needed Dokugakuji for. 

“I don’t know any spells. You’re going to have to give me the magic words,” he said drily, “to disenchant your father.”

“There are,” I bit out, wondering how many times he would ask, as if I knew, “no magic words, Sanzo. The sutra will imprison the monster. It will not purify those he has enchanted.”

“Then how am I supposed to--”

“You will have to kill him, Sanzo. Because I am not strong enough.” I said darkly, angry with him for forcing me to come to terms with it at his pace, because of his ignorance. 

He stared, questioning.

“I love my father.” I said simply, “but I hate what he has become. What he…perhaps what he let himself become.” My throat contracted, and I wondered, in his place, would I have been stronger, been able to resist whatever lure Ukoku had used? I didn’t think I would. And I would want him to kill me, too. “A king must be a leader first and a person second.”

“Is that why you were so easily able to send Goku to the chopping block?”

I whirled on him, slamming the ledger down hard onto the surface of the desk so that the monstrous piece of furniture rattled. He looked unmoved, and that angered me further.

“Yes it is. It is my duty not to feel, when I am required not to. A king belongs to the people before he belongs to himself.” 

“That’s a load of pompous shit.” Sanzo challenged me, folding his arms across the shimmering lines of his breastplate and looking uncomfortable, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “You’re always a person first, and saying that is just giving an excuse not to think about the hard questions.”

“You think I don’t feel guilt?” I breathed, and I thought my voice sounded like metal being slid out of a blade. I certainly felt provoked, but wounded too. Is that, then, how I was perceived? 

“I think you _glory_ in it, and knowing you’re suffering for it makes it all okay in your head, negates everyone else’s suffering.”

It was blasphemy to backhand a priest, but no one had ever tried me to this point. I pinned my hands to the desk and growled, “It is not so. But this must be done, no matter what. Or people will die.” 

“I think it is so.” He strode right up to me, the desk the only thing between us. “You do that a lot, don’t you, play the wounded animal?”

“ _What_?” I snarled, my pride sparking again. “How dare--”

“You do,” he insisted, leaning in a little, “You _reek_ of self-pity, always saying you’re not strong enough, that you’re ashamed, so what—you get points for correctly identifying a _feeling_? And that makes it okay to throw all of this on me, all of this into my lap?”

“You were _sent here_ for this,” I growled at him.

“I don’t know that! I don’t know why the hell I’m here—I didn’t get some divine message when I got shot full of electricity!”

“Is your life so much more precious to you than everyone else’s here? Are you as selfish as that?” I snarled and lost my composure entirely, thinking I could imagine no more self-centered a person if I tried. I would kill myself a thousand times to save Erythros, but I was useless, and feeling it. Sanzo was digging at an open wound.

“ _My_ life? Oh, no,” he shook his head hard, and I thought he would reach out for me, but he suspended his hand. “You’ve made it pretty fucking clear from the beginning that _my life_ isn’t the issue here. It’s everyone else’s—you push this on me, you make me the sole guard of everyone’s well being, and what if I fail, huh? Working up the courage to run through this is one thing—we can be altruistic too, in my world,” he informed me snidely, “But you pin all of this on me, and yeah, I’m going to try to wiggle my head out of the noose, try to find some loophole, some kind of help. Because as you’ve made so painfully clear, people are gonna die. If I fuck this up, everybody loses, and I don’t know what the hell I’m even doing. And how powerful _is_ this guy anyway? What if--” and perhaps he had been thinking on this some time, “What if he comes into _my_ world?” There was a tremor in his voice on the last note, and I almost winced in empathy. We were both lost to it. 

“I don’t know that he can do that. I hope he cannot,” I said quietly. “That is why you must--”

“I could lose.” Sanzo interrupted.

“But you will not lose.” I said, and he squinted, disbelieving. 

“And you know this for a fact, huh? What is it, another of your stupid prophesies?” 

“No,” I cut him off, sensing elaboration and a good deal more yelling coming on. “No one knows that. But I believe it.” 

 

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

The moon grew overhead, and the knot in my stomach grew with it. Having Goku about really helped; I preferred solitude in almost every case, but in the save-the-world-or-everyone-dies scenario, I really didn’t mind having someone to talk to. And he was useful in other ways, too, always with his ear to the ground and able to keep me updated about everything from the serving staff to the army, about which I would not ask Kougaiji, and he did not offer. 

A waxing gibbous by day and blissfully hidden by night, the moon indicated I had just under a week left before things broke, before I had to come to know, by and with magic, how to slay a creature I’d never seen and potentially his host, the most powerful man in Kougaiji’s world. And his father—he could so easily turn on his father? I didn’t even try to imagine myself in the same circumstances. I wouldn’t be able to do it. 

“You’re lookin’ pretty grim, Sanzo,” Goku opined, his footsteps crunching in time with mine as we walked through the leas beyond the gardens, headed to the stables. I had taken to riding more and more frequently, thinking that Hakuryu might come to be useful during the fight, if he was willing. I suspected he might be.

“Yeah well.” I cracked my knuckles, a nervous habit, “Wouldn’t you be?”

“Reckon I was,” Goku said with a somber bob of his head, coloring slightly. He’d warmed up to me enough to speak freely, and had given up Sirring and bowing and averting his gaze. He still wouldn’t call me Samuel, but no one did, and I responded well enough to the title now. 

“Does flyin’ take your mind off it?” He asked.

“Somewhat. It’s hard to be on a dragon and think of much else.” We were met at the stable door by Hakkai, and over the days I had been suspecting he was losing weight, but now I was certain of it. His clothing fairly hung on narrow shoulders, and his face was pallid, sharp eye dull. He was worried about Gojyo, Goku had told me, and while they did write, the mail being toted by a smaller dragon that flew over the sea, he’d received little by way of correspondence. 

“Hey Hakkai.”

He inclined his head politely, “Sanzo. Good to see you.”

“Is it? When did you last eat, huh?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, hands slipping over his arms as they crossed, warming his skin against the chill rising from the ground at such an early hour. “Here to ride?”

“Yeah. Any news?” I asked him this every day, to be polite, and saw his face pinch.

“Kougaiji hasn’t told you?” 

I hadn’t seen Kougaiji except in passing for a week, not since the yelling match in his study, and he’d sent nothing by way of messages to me either. When I glimpsed him in the hall, it was usually in the center of a cluster of people, his councilmen, all speaking very urgently. It didn’t rile me because he always spoke urgently, and Kougaiji had a penchant for theatrics, when it came down to it. Nothing was ever mundane. I’d thought if something serious had gone awry, the palace would be in an uproar. I’d underestimated his ability to keep a secret.

“Told me what?”

“I shouldn’t, then, either. He’s probably not wanting to induce a panic, but—Gojyo’s letters. He wrote to me. They had no success, and have seen no sign of Gyumaoh since their arrival. He said—oh. Here, just have it.” He pushed the parchment into my hands, and I reminded him gently that I couldn’t read his writing system, an ironic admission for a linguist, but he stood beside me and pronounced the words, bringing the system of lines and curves to life.

“We beached on the smoothest shore we could find, and it took an experienced navigator to get us through the swampland before we could reach the firm earth surrounding the castle. We’re encamped in our ordered positions, and despite numerous reconnaissance trips, nothing has turned up. The natives of the territory, if they’re still alive, are invisible to us, and the men who have seen Melorodon before claim that less grows here now than the last time they came, and indeed, most of the ground is nothing but the abaton stone.” His voice stalled and his eyes jumped, and I saw him skip over what must have been a personal aside, some intimacy between them.

“The air is thin at the base of the castle, and it’s hard to breathe. Although the temperature is fiercely cold and damp, the earth is hot to the touch from the volcano, and sleeping is safe, if not comfortable. I have allowed my men to camp close, but posted a double guard to catch any runaways. So far, not a one has been lured, and I don’t know if that’s because Ukoku is not yet powerful enough to do it, or already so close to revival that he has no need of soldiers, where he has a king. So we sit. We do little. Xaja and Suelep have given it a go, seeking out the narrow windows and calling. It’s futile, and I feel foolish trying it, but there is no way to initiate a siege. Even if we had the machines, the ground would tear it apart. There are earthquakes now very often, almost nightly, tremors that stem from the volcano’s base. Sometimes they’re short and hardly shake a kettle on a spit, but other times the ground tears open ten or twenty feet wide before gradually pulling itself back together. A man fell in two nights ago, and we barely had him out in time. He said it was scalding, and he had burns from it to match his story. I feel as though the entire land wants to eat us, and it could, too, but it toys with us first. I remember that Ukoku fed on fear, and that he was a master of creating it. I want to do something more than withstand his psychological blows; eventually that won’t be enough, but I have no orders for an offensive. I made some of my own.

“You might remember Recuet, Xaja’s own brother; we trained together once. He’s a good soldier, and volunteered to ride up on one of the dragons to peer inside the castle wall through one of the notched windows. He said, incase something were to happen, to shoot him down, and I had four archers and myself on him, watching. I almost shot him down. When he got up, he made some strangled sound, and his dragon flew. I’ve never seen a one drop a rider, but she did, and he clung into the niche of the sleek wall, gibbering. It was obvious to us he saw something, but couldn’t communicate it. I know Ukoku is imprisoned below, but we thought maybe Gyumaoh had free run of the space. Maybe he was above, or maybe someone else was. We still don’t know. He finally fell. I think he let go willingly; I tried to shoot him mid-fall, to kill him so that the ground wouldn’t have to. 

“We burned him, pooling our kindling rations—nothing grows here, you know. His ashes were sent back with the envoy and dragon to his family. I’m sorry for him, but the soldiers’ morale is already very low, near to terror. They say now that he’s the lucky one, to have died before the real trouble starts. I still wonder what he saw, what vision of hell could possibly exist in that demon’s lair that made it easier just to die.” 

Hakkai stopped there, though I saw almost another full page of script, more personal communication, perhaps a warning or a plea; it seemed unlikely it was any sort of reassurance. 

When he finished, folding the paper up and slipping it back into a hidden pocket, perhaps to re-read later, he led Hakuryu out for us, somber-faced. I felt I should say something, but didn’t know what. 

“He seems a capable general.”

“He is,” Hakkai said dully, and I realized that although I’d meant it as a compliment, some weird sort of comfort, it was as though I had spoken of the weather or something else as evident. Hakkai didn’t doubt Gojyo’s abilities, he feared Ukoku’s. 

“Does Kougaiji have back-up recruits?” The men he’d sent off had been the finest, but surely he held something back, some ace in the hole.

“He does. There are many who could be summoned to fight still, but who are kept for the sake of calm in Erythros. Really it isn’t a worry, the number of men he has.” He didn’t saddle Hakuryu up this time, but let Goku and me scramble up ourselves. Hakuryu knelt. “He could have millions, and Ukoku would wipe them out eventually, feed off of them. They only buy us time, and cost quite a bit of blood.”

I nodded, looking again to one of several panes of glass in the dome overhead, seeking the moon in the grey sky. “Another week,” I said softly, willing the crescent to fatten a little faster. And what would I do when it did?

“Have a good ride,” Hakkai said, brushing long fingertips across Hakuryu’s snout, who licked his palm gently before striding out and stretching his wings, lifting off. I clung to his back with my thighs rather than my hands, having gotten the hang of it by now, like riding a bike. Goku still gripped at my waist uncertainly, his hands warm and damp, muted through the fabric of the robes. Up high, the wind was usually noisy, but that afternoon was eerily calm, with hardly a breeze outside of Hakuryu’s wings, and I gave him free rein. When does a dragon not have that, anyways?

“Kougaiji hasn’t told you anythin’ about his plans then?” Goku ventured finally, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know that he has any further ones. And no. Why should he tell me?”

“Well I just thought. Since he’s been confidin’ in you lately.” 

“What makes you say that?” I remembered that brief glimpse into his panic I’d seen in the aviary, that near-desperation that he’d scrambled to hide.

“Nothin’! I don’t know,” Goku fidgeted behind me, something he was prone to, and tightened his grip with a huff of frustration. “I can just tell. He likes you. I think because you don’t give him any o’ that crap.”

“I’ve yelled at him plenty.”

“You _have_?” He balked, and then, shaking his head, “But that’s just it, I suppose. You’re not a…you don’t just tell him nice things, flatter him and stuff. In fact you don’t do that to anybody. I think he appreciates the honesty, after so much grovelin’ and all. You’re not a…” He searched for the word a second time, and I filled in, “Sycophant.”

“Yeah, that.”

“I doubt I’m much of a confidante. I’ve only been here three weeks.”

“Maybe your bein’ so far removed from everything makes you easier to talk to and what not,” Goku hypothesized. “Who else is he gonna tell, with his father gone?”

“I gathered he told Dokugakuji.” Hakuryu took a particularly sharp turn, and I felt his arms dig into me, wondering vaguely if he were an acrophobe. His feet were constantly scrambling at Hakuryu’s sides, which seemed to make the dragon sigh; we weren’t going fast enough to warrant panting. When he straightened out, wings flapping, drawing us upwards, and then leveling out again, the boy relaxed and remembered my statement. 

“Oh. Well yeah,” Goku shrugged, “That’s a given.”

“Because they’re lovers,” I guessed, and felt him tense up behind me.

“Oh Sanzo, _no_. You’ve not said that, have you?” I felt his chin poke into my shoulder, trying to lean over and read my face.

“Obviously not. That’s not my business.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Why? Are they not?”

“I--” He frowned, and I could _hear_ him doing it, worrying his lower lip with his teeth as though he were much younger. “It’s one o’ those things that everyone knows, but pretends not to know. It’s why I was so surprised when Gojyo said that thing, before we marched out.”

“What thing?”

“Called him the Sparrow Prince. Folks don’t do that much anymore.”

I frowned, and this time it was my turn to look back at him, trying to read his face. It wasn’t hard. “Why is that? He told me about his emblem, why he likes the bird.”

“He _did_?”

Apparently he hadn’t, or at least not the whole of it, to judge from Goku’s expression. “Maybe not,” I conceded, “Is this palace gossip you’re about to spit at me, or a genuine history?”

“Oh, everyone knows it, but no one would ever talk openly about it. It ain’t nice, to do that, when Kougaiji’s so good to us. I reckon they think it’s rather private, that not many know…” he drew out his breath. “I don’t know everything, but that necklace the king wears? He’s never taken it off. Dokugakuji gave it to him. They used to be…somethin’.” Goku shrugged. “I was a lot younger then, and didn’t spend a lot of time with other Companions. But they were close; older servants’ll tell you the same. Real close, you understand?”

I nodded. 

“Whatever happened…happened. We just don’t talk about it.” I sensed his hesitancy to elaborate further, and didn’t push. It was loyalty that kept him quiet, thinking of his king’s pride. Whatever they had been, it was plain to me that Kougaiji still loved him, for whatever reasons. I’d seen the way they stood together, the way he looked at his guard, and assumed that they were being discreet about it, nothing more. It was common knowledge that no one acknowledged, out of love for him. I was glad at least, if I’d had to broach the topic, that I’d done it with Goku, and high above the ground out of hearing.

I puzzled over what might have gone awry between them, and thought it a pity that Kougaiji was even more isolated than I’d assumed to begin with. He passed so much time with the man, his head of the guard, the Companions, close but never _that_ close. It was obvious who had ended it—he still wore that charm, didn’t he? Erythros’ king was an automaton, behaving only as his empire required, ruling for its sake and forgetting his own. Were the glimpses of emotion I’d seen not only rare, but the _only_ such displays? My anger over his willingness to cut ties with his father—to cut off his father’s _life_ —fizzled out. He wasn’t cruel. If he had no one in whom to find solace, how could he afford to feel anything in the first place? 

\-------

 

Dokugakuji resolved the issue of Setisreht’s grievance rather swiftly without my presence. The man even withdrew his formal complaints. I knew him well enough to be aware that there may have been more than diplomatic wiles involved, but Dokugakuji’s fervent defense of Soálenem had me persuaded. In fact I had become rather curious about that, finding it odd that he would connect himself to a minor lord with whom his own father had had no dealings. I remembered that he had almost begun to say something, the hour before the helmet had been found, and wondered what it was. Five days from the full moon, he showed me. 

I had been in a meeting not with Council, but with a host of lords and ladies, all piled into the throne room and listening attentively to my instructions. I was speaking to them of Erythros’ circumstances, of how precarious things were at the moment. Even our country had felt the residual shudders of the last earth tremor; letters from Suelep had informed me that the volcano had begun to gush at a steady rate, forcing his encampment back a good three miles and filling the air with ash and heat, which the cold slowly ate at. If reinforcements would become necessary, it was the duty of regional leaders to instigate the recruitment, and I was encouraging them to leave off production of everything but the most basic necessities, namely food, in the search for soldiers. If it came to that. 

They were a solemn-faced crowd, and it sapped my energy speaking to them, trying to emit enough hope that it might pervade every line and row, give a spark of life to each individual. They fed off of it, and I was glad to sit, at the end, feeling my knees shake from the effort. Letting them see that would undo everything. 

Men came up to rehearse vows of loyalty as a mere formality, or maybe some sort of comfort. It wasn’t required, but I was touched to see it, squeezing many palms as they passed by, recognizing every face. Many of these people had seen me grow up, and I felt connected to them. They had always supported me, and it was my turn to defend them. 

Sanzo was there, my court ornament, as he had begun calling himself, and stood behind me the entire time. I wondered at his sudden turn around. While he had never shown fear, there was a genuine reluctance to the task, and now it was gone, replaced with some resolved and resigned façade. The light shone off his hair, gilding it as the sun began to set, and he let one long ivory sleeve brush my arm in passing, walking close, that same expression on his face.

“It’s funny,” He said after a time, and we paused outside of my office, lingering in the unoccupied corridor that gave out onto a landing not far from the aviary. I could hear the wind sifting through the flora there, and the faint smell of honeysuckle drifted upward, mixing with the musky incense that clouded Sanzo’s robes. 

“I’ve spent the past few weeks being insanely impatient for the month to come to an end, and now I feel like I’m dragging my feet, digging in my heels, to slow it down.”

I nodded my understanding; it was the same. There were things I wanted to do that I had put off for some time, dreading them. I said as much to him, and he asked what.

“I would speak to my sister, before I leave. She has only a fragmentary understanding of what is to happen. I wouldn’t keep her in the dark.”

“I thought we were going to win,” Sanzo reminded me, and I smiled wanly.

“You are. I made no promises for myself—I can’t. But there are things she must know of.”

He seemed to catch on, and inclined his head, speaking more softly. “You inherit your father’s power, but without you, does she…?”

I nodded. “It would pass to her. She knows this, but not how perilous our situation is.”

He left me for the evening shortly after that, looking as if he wanted to say something, those sharp violet eyes constantly flitting to my throat, my chest, where only a simple set of gilded buttons ran. I retired to my office, surprised to find Dokugakuji already there, sitting in one of the urn-backed velvet seats that ringed my father’s massive desk. He stood when I entered, and I saw a rolled up parchment in his hand. 

“You’re back from your visit to Soálenem. I got your message—everything is settled, then?” I was drawing out a ledger where I kept the most recent military correspondence, planning to update him.

“Yes, it was an easy enough business.”

“I appreciate your going for me; somehow I suspect if I’d sent anyone else, it would have ended messily in court, costing everyone time that might be put to better use.”

“Are you suggesting I intimidated Setisreht?” Dokugakuji asked with mock indignation, and I shook my head, still serious.

“Not at all. Only that you’re more efficient, and know well how to work these sorts of things. You’re quite a diplomat, when you have to be.” A spark of memory, recalling his words all those nights ago, made my face flush faintly. A diplomat indeed. Even the most painful things came out sweet as honey, if he liked. “If I might ask, what prompted you to speak so passionately on Soálenem’s behalf? I wasn’t aware you had dealings with him outside of the court.”

“I didn’t, before. You know he is Yaone’s own father.”

“Yes, I remember.” 

He moved to sit at the edge of the polished wood; I saw the rolled up document was balanced near his thigh. When I did not take the seat behind it, the heavy ledger still unopened, he stood again and walked a bit before me. 

“I’ve been speaking with him a great deal lately. I know this is hardly the time, but you did inquire, and it seems stupid to keep it a secret.” He held out the rolled parchment, “We drafted this about three months ago, before the problem became quite serious. I thought I would wait, but it seems cruel to wait, if…if things do not turn out well.”

I unfurled the paper, hearing it rattle and straighten as I skimmed the lines, recognizing only the signature. The handwriting must have been Soálenem’s, elegant and slanted like calligraphy. I blinked. “This is a marriage document.”

“Yes.” Dokugakuji had a hesitant smile on his face, nervous, excited, perhaps thinking I would embrace him. 

“Between you and Soálenem’s daughter.”

“Yes. We’ve been talking about it for some time, Yaone and I. We thought we would announce it at the festival, but when things went poorly…but now we want it known, just in case.” He was so hopeful, so expectant, almost leaning forward, watching my face. The license was not required, as I have mentioned before, but something passed to the king out of respect, out of friendship, asking his blessing. My stomach twisted and dropped, leaving my chest a hollow cavity, and I strained to keep my hands even on the paper, not to set it alight in surprise or grief or some other humiliatingly flighty emotion. _How could you ask this of me?_

He loved Yaone. Of course I had noticed. I must have. He paid her special attention, and I had done my best to ignore it. It wasn’t my affair, and it hurt to think on, so I’d brushed it aside. It wasn’t as though I had any shortage of diversion, especially in the past six weeks. It was easy enough to forget appeared to be a passing fancy, and I never would have guessed them to be on the verge of marriage. If he was so convinced it didn’t trouble me, why had he never mentioned it? I wanted to shout that he was selfish to do this now of all times, to do this _ever_ , but then I saw that he was happy, truly contented with the idea, and that it gave him some sort of hope, some sort of goal, despite the war that fringed our borders. This was not done out of malice; he didn’t have it in him. And as well as he knew me, no matter what I might have thought, he didn’t know _this_. And I couldn’t bear to tell him; the shame was one thing—but he had seen that on me before. It would make him feel guilty, and there was no reason for it; I would not have him suffer for anything. 

Tempering my words, I spoke carefully and traced the fading smile on his face with a glance. I had been silent a beat too long, and hurried to correct it. 

“You have my congratulations.” When that came out awkward, stilted, false, I thought of his smile and brought it to my own face, a warm expression blooming. He was happy. “Truly, Dokugakuji. I am happy for you,” I said gently, moving from behind the desk to take his hand, his arm, and he drew me into a hard embrace, but this time his hand clapped my back and our shoulders barely brushed. 

“I know it’s just a formality, but I had hoped you would--”

“Of course,” I promised, taking up the paper again and dashing my signature across the bottom, so quickly that he wouldn’t see it if my hand did shake. More slowly, then, I pressed the signet ring over it, wet with red ink, and watched the sparrow appear there, thinking it an awful irony.

I shouldn’t have done that. My throat contracted, and hurriedly, before the ink was even dry, I pressed it back into his hands.   
“You will have the wedding here, I hope?” I asked hollowly, and in his enthusiasm he missed it, bobbing his head.

“I should like that very much, if it’s convenient. Later.”

“Yes, later,” I agreed numbly. How selfish could I be, to deny him his happiness because of what I still couldn’t loose myself from? “We’ll have to do it up right. Lirin will be so pleased; she thinks of Yaone as a sister.” I didn’t know that Lirin had any of these thoughts, but didn’t quite know what else to say. It seemed to make him happy.

“I’m sure she’d be a bridesmaid, or something like that. You know how the women are with these things,” he looked excited enough at the prospect himself, and I wanted to say no, I didn’t, but only smiled and tried not to look affected. 

“She will have every resource at her disposal. How lucky for her, she already knows her way around the palace and servants. I’m sure it will be beautiful.” I paused, and, looking at him, asked regally, in as distanced a voice as I could manage, “Are you very much in love?”

The smile accompanying his nod was unfettered and completely naturally, and I thought of the way he had looked at me like that once, as if we shared a secret. _I won’t let you fall, Prince._

“This means a lot to me, Kou.” He clapped a strong hand over my shoulder, squeezing lightly. I winced at the name and wanted to say, Don’t call me that. “Thank you.”

“There is nothing to thank,” I assured him, smiling again, and glancing at the door. “It would be unfair of me to keep you—I’m sure Yaone would like to hear of this also. As you said, women and weddings…”

“Right! Of course,” He backed off, smiling brightly to me again, “We will be one another’s best men, some day,” he suggested, and I’m sure I said something appropriately vague and polite, listening to the door click heavily shut behind him and his quick steps down the hall. I imagined what he might say to her, showing her my messy signature and the bleeding print of a sparrow. 

_Shall we go…up?_

I opened again the heavy leather ledger and sank into the seat behind the desk, my eyes wringing out every detail from the words, soaking up the information and trying to process it. I kept hearing his voice and felt sick. Weak. The door opened again and I almost called out, “don’t,” but stopped just in time. It wasn’t Dokugakuji, but another guard, bearing in his hand a wrinkled message. 

“Urgent, Sire,” he said without pardoning his own intrusion, and I knew it must be. Unfurling it, I had to read it twice, a letter from Suelep, brief and to the point with none of his usual niceties. The seal had been unbroken, but my face was a mirror for the words, and I saw the guard’s complexion drain; he was pressing me with his eyes.

“My lord?”

“Summon the Council,” I instructed him, and he salted, turning to do so, but hesitating just a beat. I thought, he deserved to know, having been the one to bear the news. “Ukoku has raised his army. The men are being pushed back. We have five days to fight this. _Go_.” 

He went, almost sliding inelegantly across the parquet floors outside; I heard the slap of metal on marble twice more, when something fell.

I had ten minutes before the Council would arrive in the large room to stare at the map and the wicked red ruby glinting over Melorodon’s volcano. I looked at the letter, and the streak of red across it from my hand, where the ink still clung damply to my signet ring. There wasn’t time to indulge in the selfish mourning of my dearest friend’s happiness; I had a second army to raise, and this time, I would be following them out. 

I passed under the archway and listened for the click as I strode down the hall, almost turning the corner before it did. I was the first in the hall, and went to the map to rake my hand across the familiar letters of my country’s name, chasing glinting gemstones with my fingertips the way I had as a child. I had imagined doing this one day as king, but I hadn’t imagined _this_. 

The wind beat against the glass; it had been storming non-stop, since the beginning of the volcano’s steady rumblings, and the sky only grew darker. I was afraid, and suddenly felt very alone, as if cut loose from an anchor, whipping about in the brewing storm outside with no real sense of direction. It would be easier if my sentence were merely to die; I knew how to do that. I thought to myself, I don’t know what to do, and heard his voice again. _I won’t let you fall, Prince._

What had once brought such solace seemed now a mocking irony. 

_You did._

 

\------

 

I sat very still while he explained, seeing pain line his face and knowing before he opened his mouth that it was bad. We still had a full four days and then some before the moon would be full, and he was in the process of sending his back-up troops, his ace in the hole, already. There was nothing to fortify there, and nothing to fall back to. When he spoke of armies, I couldn’t imagine what they might look like, but other men could, and I heard more than enough. 

Kougaiji paced, a lion again, though there was a shadow just past his eyes that I couldn’t place. There was no seat for an eleventh council member, but Xaja’s and Suelep’s were empty with their absence, and I took Xaja’s at the end of the table beside the dark-haired woman called Yaone, who continued to exchange hopeful, tired glances with Dokugakuji throughout the meeting. Rotsen was there, and several others whose names I didn’t know, listening to their king’s words with hard eyes and tense lines about their mouths. I saw knuckles being clenched and whitened, shoes scuffling against one another in awkward shifting, the creak of a chair or the squeak of a heel on the floor. 

“Ukoku has raised his army from the dirt and rock. Our own has fallen back under the sheer size of it,” Kougaiji announced. “The casualties are…endurable. At this rate. But only for a time. We can hold them off, and will have to, because they take no rest, and fighting continues throughout the night. Killing them turns them back to earth, but with a flick of his wrist, Ukoku’s host can make them rise again. He has an unlimited supply of ground to work with; I don’t think it’s necessary to impress upon you the severity of the situation.”

He paused, looking to Rotsen expectantly; the man always had something to add, but this time he was silent. Everyone had questions, but no one knew where to start or how to ask them. Fortunately Kougaiji was his usual, organized self, and began laying the groundwork of his contingency plan immediately. How he could remain so level-headed when only a sea away his army was being torn apart, leaving his homeland unsecured, amazed me to some degree. I’d seen politicians and soldiers sweat over smaller things by far, in my own world. But as he’d said before, he was bred to it.

“There is no way to win against the beasts he conjures; we will have to find and imprison him,” and here he looked at me, as did everyone else, and I felt myself sit up a little straighter, trying to look less intimidated by the thought of a dirt-army and its puppet master. It sounded like something out of a novel. 

“Until we are able to do that, for the coming four days our only goal will be maintenance. Hold them off, and let them not near the seas or the ships. To ensure this, I have already sent instructions to the men to sail our ships back. We will send out back-up tomorrow morning at sunrise, but because we can spare no crew to bring the vessels back, they will be burned.”

I saw a ripple of trepidation run the length of the room at the idea; the soldiers would be stranded on Melorodon without a ship, and the only hope they might have of making it home would be Ukoku’s incarceration. In other words, me. I hoped the Gordian knot in my gut wasn’t apparent on my face, too. I needed them to trust me. 

“There is no other way.” Kougaiji spoke firmly, but I could hear him seeking some sort of agreement or approval, just under the steely lining of his voice. Dokugakuji put his fist down on the table in concurrence, but it gave little comfort. Kougaiji saw him, and then saw through him, and looked away.

“Sire,” a man with a scraggly, pale beard spoke up; his face was very old, and his eyes disconcertingly young, not at all touched by cataracts or crows’ feet. “If he’s used your father’s energy to raise the army, how indeed does he intend to escape?”

It was puzzling, and I had been wondering the same thing. Hakkai had said that it would sap him of his energy to keep an army of that size mobile and running the offensive, and it would leave nothing for the removal of Ukoku’s wards. If he were already free, would he not have inhabited Gyumaoh’s body and simply wiped out the whole of the army? By what I’d understood of his powers, he could do this very easily. 

“I don’t know,” Kougaiji said warily, and I saw genuine distrust of the situation in his eyes. “I only know what has been reported to me. Perhaps he is biding his time, perhaps he is strong enough, without half the talismans, to effect this sort of damage. It has never happened before,” the king said a little restlessly, “and none of us knows how to handle it.”

The blond-beard quieted, but I heard his knuckles crack as he tilted his head back in thought. 

“If he is free, or near to it, we will know very shortly,” Kougaiji promised darkly. “And I don’t plan on gambling the safety of our people for four days. We will take our backup recruits to Melorodon, but the people near the coast and a hundred miles inland will be evacuated farther south.” 

This order sent a rumble of discontent up among the Council, but a raised palm stopped it. “What else would you have me do? Everything is dependent upon time; we will buy as much of it as we can. If somehow his army crosses the sea, I do not want an undefended nation to be the first thing it meets. We will fortify the castle, but no one else near the capital may remain; everyone is to go south. The evacuation will begin in the morning; city officials may lead it, and some of you as well,” he inclined his head. “We’ll be short of man-power, and can spare no one. The dragons too young to add fire to our offensive must be called back to aid in clearing the shore-cities; the distance is very great, and we will send with them our best horses.” There was a shifting, but no one spoke just yet. Kougaiji continued.

“Any capable soldier is to report; this is an official call to arms, and messengers to the regional leaders will be sent out this evening.”

I thought that was a ridiculously short window for the summoning and arrangement of troops, but when they were being wiped out at such a steady rate, it could be made possible. The mass exodus of tens of thousands of people sounded more problematic, but the detailed orders were handed out on heavy scrolls of rolled velum, dropped before the folded arms of three men. A fourth was held back, lighter looking than the rest, but covered in Kougaiji’s heavy scrawl. He put it aside.

“What hurts us the most is that we do not know what he’s planning, or to what extent his power has grown.” I saw that it pained him, knowing that his father was being so cruelly used in that way, and moreso that he couldn’t figure out why Ukoku would risk the draining of Gyumaoh’s powers now. If he persisted in maintaining this army, how would he ever gain enough strength to tear off the charms that imprisoned him? Or was he already free indeed, and this was all a great ruse to lure Kougaiji forward and occupy his body after Gyumaoh’s death? 

The king named names and sent men off; one, an elder woman I had not seen before with a sharp, stony face that might have been carved from the mountains, was ordered to aid in the evacuation of the capital, heading the business herself. I thought she might be knocked over by a feather until she moved, rising swiftly, bowing perfectly, and exiting. Kougaiji kissed her veined hand before she did and bade her be safe and remember to follow the baggage train out herself. She had a day and a half to manage this, and access to the men who remained in one of the barracks; all but a small contingent were to return after escorting the caravan fifty miles south, though by then I thought everything would already be done and over with. They were, perhaps, a last wall of defense. 

People dripped out of the room slowly, told of the barracks to which they would be given right of entry, one block to aid in the mass departure of each major region, something like a county, from what I gathered. In the end four were left, the king, myself, his head of the guard, and the dark-haired Yaone who sat beside me, watching Kougaiji with doe eyes.

“Dokugakuji.” The parchment he handed him was small, formal but unnecessary. “I would have you lead the reserves in tomorrow morning.” There was some hesitancy there, as if he expected doubt or refusal. I thought the guard only looked relieved, glad to take up the honor and a weapon for his country. Hadn’t that been the issue before, Kougaiji’s keeping him back? _Selfishly_ , he had said. Maybe not so much.

Dokugakuji nodded solemnly and then, clutching Kougaiji’s hand, drew him forward and to him, touching his upper arm in a firm sort of shake. “We’ll beat them back yet,” he promised. “Whatever he’s planning, he won’t have us off his back in four days.” Kougaiji nodded and clasped his hand in return, but had nothing to add except for the prescribed blessings, and I thought there was some reservation in his eyes when they exchanged words. 

Dokugakuji waited for Yaone, positioned at the door, and the king pressed something into her hands, a much sturdier paper, though less of it, and I saw through it the red of his signet ring’s stamp. 

“Yaone. I would have you take my sister,” he said gravely. 

“Lady Lirin!” Yaone’s eyes shot open wider yet. “She’s not to remain in the castle?”

“I wouldn’t have her so near to the northern shores. When I leave with Sanzo, she is my father’s last heir. If I die, she will be his next target. I want her as far from Melorodon as possible.” 

I saw her frown a little when he spoke so temperately of his death and heard the click of Dokugakuji’s teeth as he took in a breath, making some sign against evil. 

“I’m honored,” she stammered, her voice lilting in a tremble, and I felt the protest budding from where I stood. “But Sire, I am not a strong warrior.” I was surprised she was any kind of warrior, but then again, Kougaiji had emphasized to me the importance of a woman’s role in Erythros’ political system. Perhaps they had one in the military too. 

“Maybe not, but you’re an intelligent one, and I need that more right now.” He looked to his general. “You know I set great store by Dokugakuji’s opinion. If he trusts you to guard your home as his wife, I trust you to guard my sister. She is my only family now; protect her.”

I tried not to let the surprise show on my face— _wife!_ —and Yaone bowed then, a faint flush on her face, and swore a solemn oath, touching his hand. He squeezed hers and told her he would give word to Lirin; she was to pack only what was necessary and prepare to leave. 

I remembered that he once told me the power of his family surpassed that of any other; Lirin was certainly more capable of defending herself than Yaone was, and the woman would act as nothing more than a nursemaid to her. Anyone could have filled the spot. But all of the Council had been given exigent and urgent orders, none of which would allow them to flee the danger zone very swiftly. The very nature of Yaone’s duty put her safety on the same level as the princess’s. He was protecting her.

“Kou.” Suddenly I had the sensation that I wasn’t seen or noticed, all the way in the back of the room where sound carries but sight is muffled. Dokugakuji let the door fall shut and smiled a bit, clasping his hand a bit, and Kougaiji didn’t lean forward into it.

“Thank you.”

The king took a little breath; I saw the gold embroidery of his tunic rise with his chest and shoulders, and he looked very noble then, weary and watchful and wearing the great burden of leadership handsomely. I wondered when he had received the news, and how he bore up so well with everything falling down in pieces around him. He was held up by pride and purpose alone, now.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said brusquely, “she’s shown nothing but keen judgment since I met her.” He paused for a moment, and I sensed that I wasn’t quite supposed to hear this. “But now you have something to return to, Dokugakuji. Make sure you do.” 

 

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sanzo and Kou have an amusing conversation about cultural differences.

The soldiers sailed just after sunrise, whole fleets of them glistening in armor and crested helmets. I marveled at the speed with which they had gathered and prepared to leave; perhaps they had been waiting, truly men on reserve, since the first expedition sailed. Kougaiji’s speech was shorter and simpler for efficiency’s sake this time, and he held back pretty promises, knowing what they were going up against, and not daring to mock it by dressing it as an ordinary war. 

If he bade Dokugakuji any special goodbye, he did it in private, because every interaction between them was a formal or professional one. Dokugakuji kissed his signet ring and made a bow, saying something low that looked very proper and earned him a nod from the king. For a moment, and I saw it only because I was looking for it, Kougaiji seemed to falter, perhaps squeezing his hand back, but then released him as he boarded the vessel. The sun was peering up over the horizon then, setting the sea on fire and igniting Kougaiji’s hair, too. It looked like a halo, and I thought he was genuinely sorry not to be accompanying his general to the fight. 

The ships that they filled I had never seen before, and although they had something of the familiar about them, like stylized Viking crafts in picture books, or brightly-painted Greek triremes, they were unique unto themselves. I counted five layers, the bottom two in the hull being for storage and rowers, though wide, snapping ivory sails caught every breath of wind, putting it to use. There were two tiers of oars, not quite a trireme, the top painted in gold and the lower level in scarlet, worn by the waves but still visible from the shore. 

I had been surprised at how near a march it was to sea from the capital; while flying Hakuryu, I hadn’t seen a hint of the ocean. Of course we’d always flown inland, as dragons prefer wooded and hilly areas to the open water, but to know it was nothing more than a half day’s march was astounding. Once again, my bearings were thrown off, having no mental map to refer to. I thought of the oddly shaped continent-islands on the map in the Assembly room, the heavy ruby at the center of Melorodon’s southernmost coast, where the castle was situated, and the expanse of blue tile between it and Erythros’ coast. How far was that, then? A half-day’s sail? A full one? 

Kougaiji watched the ships depart, but once they had passed the horizon, slicing through the black waters very quickly, the entire entourage returned at full speed, and he was passing out orders before the baggage trains had even begun to move. 

When we had left the palace it was early twilight, and I had seen very little of the city; what I remembered of it was what I had seen weeks ago the first time Hakuryu took me up. Walking back through it in daylight, I thought everything had changed. The strange cone-shaped flower pendulums had all been removed from the streets along with their haunting scents, and windows had been locked tight and latched, shutters closed to the public eye. People littered the streets with their carts and meager belongings, but none of it was at the lazy pace of before. Children were screeching or crying in the early hour, and I heard men arguing and shouting orders. Officials, so noted by their cloaks and the brooches they wore at the throat of them, were directing families and knocking on doors, putting out public notices and checking houses that did not appear to have been evacuated. 

Kougaiji had gone ahead of me on horseback; but I ended up catching him before he reached the palace; he had been stalled by mess in a narrow pass, where one soldier or another hadn’t shown up, and the streets were clogged with traffic, wagons and small pack animals and irritated or frightened citizens. Some of the men with me made a great fuss when they found their king stripped to trousers and shirt sleeves, helping an old woman tie her belongings back onto a rickety wagon, but he shooed them off, his tone brusque and business like. I overheard his rebuttal, “Well we’re short a man, aren’t we? Someone didn’t show up; we’re stalling these people from heading out.” 

After correcting the traffic blunder and giving out the same directions to at least three dozen families—all with the same degree of patience, of apology for the inconvenience, as though he were planning roadwork, rather than trying to save their lives—Kougaiji took up his horse again and found one for me as well. We road through the circle city, and he supervised the move, getting progress reports from every corner and occasionally dismounting to help push back up an overturned carriage or explain to another family which road it was they were to take, and how far South they should march.

It was organized chaos, but still more the latter than the former, and I could tell it put him on edge, being so used to the precision of military life. But people were frightened, having heard the news—he kept no secrets from them—and he empathized. Everyone was alarmed, but some of them had a duty to appear not so. He told me Lirin and Yaone would not leave until shortly past noon, and he would be there to see them off, but until then someone must supervise. 

“I wish we had more men to supervise the evacuation here—people are bringing too many things, clogging the roads.” He frowned, “But one can hardly tell them to leave their lives behind.”

“That’s exactly what they’ll do if they spend all their time packing.” I protested, “What do they think will happen to it?”  
Kougaiji’s mouth was a hard line, and though he urged people to travel lightly, he didn’t empty their carts of goods, as I saw some of his guards doing. 

There was some trouble around eleven regarding the provisions. Men in crimson cloaks approached, knowing their king perhaps by his looks or his earrings, but certainly not by soot and dirt-stained clothes, simpler even than the majority of those pooling around us. Maybe they spotted him by seeking my white robes out in the crowd.

Farmers were reluctant to give up their harvests and stores to supply the migration parties. It was royal decree—they didn’t really have a choice—but I gathered that Kougaiji had promised them compensation at a very worthy rate upon their return, and that everything was being kept in a ledger. 

“They worry Sire, that they won’t have the money up front. The goods can’t exactly be returned.”

Kougaiji ruffled. “Do they doubt my word, that I would repay them? Let them have it now then, if they want it. I just don’t see what need they’d have of it—everything will be rationed besides, and there’s no coin that can buy defense from this, if it passes through.” 

The soldier said from beneath the heavy helm of his helmet that he would see them paid upfront from the treasury, if they insisted. “Shouldn’t it be better anyway, Sire, to have the money in the circulation of our people, rather than stored up, ripe to be plucked in a siege?”

Kougaiji looked disgusted, shaking his head as we rode on. “If that were all, I’d have given it over gladly. Ukoku isn’t interested in wealth.” 

I helped him several times thereafter, herding people like confused cattle down the roads until the parts of the city nearest the castle began to look quite deserted. I noticed with surprise that my robes remained clean—pristine even—and Kougaiji said it was their magic; they were pure, and would not dirty. Occasionally, I had begun to feel the sutra on my shoulders pulsate in a way it hadn’t since I’d first put it on, and my fingers started to itch. It wasn’t a painful sensation or even uncomfortable, except in that it was unfamiliar. In fact, I began to gain some strange feeling of assurance when it continued, stop and go, all through the day, sending little electric pulses up my arms and through my chest that felt like a much gentler form of lightning. By nightfall, the moon was very wide indeed, and I watched it slip between gauzy clouds from the wide sill of my bedroom. Goku brought a tea service in and a meal of roast mutton and some spicy vegetable that makes the mouth burn but leaves a pleasant aftertaste. 

Afterwards, offering him the plate that held another jelly-filled sort of pastry, I felt a shock pass through me and run along the dish, watching it slip up Goku’s fingers and cause him to jerk back with a cry of pain, shattering the porcelain. His eyes were wide, and he rubbed his hand where a hot blister was forming.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, moving to grasp at his wrist and inspect the wound, but holding back just in time. He jerked away.  
“Ah—maybe you shouldn’t,” Goku suggested shakily.

“Put cold water on it.” I saw the jagged line was already rising, and he was wincing some as he rubbed the skin around it tentatively. It looked familiar, serrated and chaotic, and I thought of the scar on my own shoulder from the lighting.   
“It’s a good thing,” Goku said from the washroom, his voice echoing over the pour of water as he bathed the injury. “It must mean your powers’re comin’ in, right?”

“I hope that’s what it is.” I was looking at my hands, uninjured themselves, and the blackened fragments of the plate.   
“I’m sure of it. Ain’t that how Sanzos travel, anyway, by lighting?”

“That is what Kougaiji says.”

“Well then. Reckon we’ll just have to keep you away from any metal for the next few days, then.” He came out and picked up one of the cookies that hadn’t fallen, eating it in two great bites with a bashful grin. “Good thing the best stuff is finger-food, huh?”

 

\-------

 

_He was dressed all in sage when he first said it to me, and I thought it cruel to wear celebration colors when delivering such a message. We were in my chambers, fresh from the baths after a bout in the training yard. We’d fought different opponents and both come out victorious, though as always I mock-complained that the man had played it easy on me, either for who I was or out of pity for my stature._

_“Please,” Dokugakuji rolled his eyes at me. “If he went easy on you, he certainly suffered a lot to do it. That or he’s a marvelous actor—imagine being able to flip oneself over in mid-air like that…”_

_“Naturally he let me do that to him.”_

_“Yes, naturally.” Doku grinned at me, handing over a green tunic, all hand-embroidered, and I set it aside instead, stepping up to him._

_“I’m envious; you grew up with such practice. Without my magic, I would be mediocre at best.”_

_“You’re mediocre at nothing.” Dokugakuji contradicted me, but I felt him tense when I slipped my arms up about his shoulders. He’d done this not a few times before, but shied away when I’d asked about it. How strange, for one who was bashful about very little. Leaning in to kiss him, my lips just grazing his, he drew back. Since the night of my coronation, we’d been to bed twice more, and I had lost all timidity with him. He seemed, though, to have contracted some of mine._

_“Out with it.” I insisted. “You’ve been wanting to say it for some time—I can tell. What is it?” My hands were still on his shoulders, thumbs near his clavicles, and I could feel his heartbeat pick up when I asked._

_“Kougaiji, we shouldn’t.”_

_“Shouldn’t?” I echoed, eyebrows going up. “Shouldn’t what? Shouldn’t lie together?”_

_“No.” He agreed, “It’s…”_

_I didn’t help him this time, feeling my limbs grow heavy and drawing them away._

_“It’s not right. You’re to be my king.”_

_“Yes.” I said. “But I was your lover first.”_

_“No, you were always my king,” he said softly, and this time he touched me, his hand ghosting over the marks on my cheek, dusting my earring. I heard it jangle loudly in the silence between us. “I can’t serve you and be your lover both.”_

_“Why not?” I demanded. “Have I ever put you beneath me? Have I ever considered my honor before yours?”_

_“No!” Dokugakuji protested quickly, his eyes widening in hurt at the accusation. “Never. And that’s part of the problem—I’m a liability. Respecting your soldiers and loving them are two different things. The person you love cannot be…” he struggled there with a way to phrase it delicately, and I thought there was none. “In your service.”_

_“The person I love is in my service,” I contested. “You’re no liability! I trust you inherently—there could be no better man to--”  
“I am. This closeness between us, beyond friendship, is too volatile. It couldn’t work. Men could use me against you very easily, if they found out. It would cripple your control.”_

_“How is that different than any other lover!” I protested, thinking they might just as easily take hostage a queen or maiden._

_“Another lover wouldn’t have armies under his command, or access to the armory. Think of the havoc that could be wreaked. The discontent among the men…”_

_“Their discontent?” I breathed, my face heating up with indignation. “Is that it, then? You worry for your pride—do you fear cries of nepotism, of inequity?”_

_“No! No man in his right mind would accuse you of that. But with me you are…”_

_“What am I?”_

_He paused, his eyes locking with mine, and I saw veritable sadness there, regret. I felt only a desperate anger, wanting to lash myself to him. How could he do this?_

_“Vulnerable, Kougaiji. I make you vulnerable. I can’t possibly serve you to the best of my abilities if I’m your lover first—no queen would countenance it, and you’re too honest to lie.”_

_“We would find one who would!” I snapped back, feeling something inside begin to unravel. I had never panicked, not truly, before this. It was a frightening, disorienting sensation. I wanted to reach out and clutch him to me, to stand before the door that he might not leave._

_“I would not be the one to stand in your way, and in the end that’s what would happen. No king has ever taken a soldier as his lover.”_

_“No king has ever made it public,” I countered, “That doesn’t mean--”_

_“Why do you think that is? You know as well as I do the delicate balance of an army, and better by far, of an empire. You can’t afford to put yourself in harm’s way, and if you choose to, I won’t be the one to let you. You could be badly used, Kougaiji. I know you too well—I won’t be that instrument.”_

_“You’re cruel,” I accused, breathless. “Why would you do this? Why now?”_

_“I shouldn’t have started it,” he said mournfully, “but I wanted--”_

_“I wanted!” I shouted back, “_ I _wanted. I still do—and you would deprive me of my dearest friend, my—?”_

_“I would never deprive you of our friendship, Kougaiji. You’re dearer to me than any.”_

_I felt my nerves on end and steeled them, determined not to make any greater a fool of myself before him. I didn’t want that to be what he remembered of me, and I would not force or beguile him into anything. As I had said, I loved him most dearly._

_“Is this really what you wish?” I asked, thinking I could touch him then, one more time, and he would let me. I held back._

_“It is what I must do.”_

_“Is it_ what you wish _?” I demanded, my voice never rising._

_He lowered his head, and then his knee, in bow. I could have struck him. “It is what I wish.”_

_“Then go.” He rose, formally and with no haste, and I could feel my eyes prickling with heat and gave a shout, “I command you to go!”_

 

\----------

 

I was very proud of Lirin when I bade her goodbye. Explaining everything to her had been simple enough, but I’d seen the automatic fear registering in her eyes when she learned she wasn’t to stay in the castle with me, but to leave with the rest of the kingdom. I told her a camp would be set up, but she would be quite protected and provided for for the duration. As she considered it, she paced about her room, startling the canaries in the white-wire cages and nudging her dolls into place. Sogra was beneath a great ivory-legged table, tail thumping the heavy pink curtains and sending ripples up through the silk.

I stood at the door, just beneath the painted trellis, and remembered when we’d had it commissioned. It had been something I’d done for her, and I recalled how desperate she had been for Father to take a look at it, to pay her quarters a visit and see her dolls or come watch her in the training yard. I’d thought that, at least, would impress him; she was very good, always above her peers. Is that where her bravery came from, fending for herself all the time? Nursemaids were not confidantes; had she told all her secrets to her dolls? I had come in not a few nights during her youth, but never enough, not really. I felt guilty for it now, when she was too old to take those years back. 

As she sank to her knees at the foot of her bed, resting her cheek against the cool coverlet, I knelt beside her. 

“You don’t need to be afraid. It’s only for a little while.”

“Who said I’m afraid? And what about Sogra?” 

“Well she will come with you, of course.”

“What about you?”

“You know I must remain here; someone has to watch the castle.” I smiled, but her calculating gaze threw me off. Not such a child, then. 

“It’s a greater danger for _you_ to stay, Brother. You’re the one he’ll be wanting, if father dies.” 

I frowned. “Yes. But a king cannot hide from his enemies. And I have Sanzo to protect me.”

She looked discontent, but accepted it, flinging her arms about me and burying her face at my shoulder. I thought she would cry, but she did not, only let me run my hands through the heavy curls of her hair and remind her of Yaone’s presence, and how she would keep her safe. We both knew anything that Lirin couldn’t defeat, Yaone would be powerless against, but the name of familiar company was like a balm. She knew Yaone well enough, and the woman was of a patient disposition. I didn’t know her as well as I liked, but Dokugakuji did, and it hadn’t been empty flattery, what I’d told Yaone about how I esteemed his opinion.

“Will I come back, after you lock him up again?”

“Of course.” I drew back, hands on her shoulders, and smiled into her eyes. She forced one onto her mouth to match. 

“Everything will be as you left it. You’ll be brave, won’t you, and good for Yaone?”

She rolled her eyes a little and put her hands on her hips, and then she stood from the plush carpeting, looking about her brightly painted room. “I will be brave.”

“Good.” I smiled, thinking that if I lost her, there would be nothing to drive me. I prayed silently for the gods to protect her. _Have my life_ , I’d said a thousand times before, and it was no longer a valid bargaining chip. I almost said, _Have anyone’s, but not hers._

 

\------- 

 

The third day before the full moon, Kougaiji spent the day out, assisting in the final evacuation and the transport of provisions that made up the long baggage train. He didn’t have enough men to guard it, but trusted in his people to work together in a way that would have made any politician from my world balk. I thought it was endearing, if not a bit naïve. Then again, I am a foreigner, and perhaps in this world people behave differently. Privately, I did not think so, and hoped no one would seize the opportunity to attempt to loot and monopolize the provisions. Then again, if Lirin were following them and half the mage everyone acknowledged her brother to be, maybe there wouldn’t be much trouble at all.

Goku attended me—or stuck to my heels like a shadow—all day, and I tried to make myself useful, though Kougaiji had already advised against taking to the streets. It wouldn’t be proper, he said, for a priest to be seen doing a common man’s work. It would unnerve the people. I pointed out that he was doing that himself, and he smiled. “A king is different. We lead, but are not holy. You are of a different world.”

I said wryly that it was becoming increasingly apparent to me that I was, and he laughed. I hadn’t heard him laugh in some time—not since my arrival, in fact, and though it was strained, I took it. When had I started to attach such importance to his well-being? I shouldn’t feel badly for _him_ —he had summoned me, after all, and put me in the center of this mess. 

But I couldn’t deny I had a new respect for him, to see him laboring among soldiers and guards and peasants, using a mixture of magic and physical exertion to bring about a safe egression. For all his uptight politesse, his strict and almost cruel adherence to ancient laws, he didn’t hold himself above anyone, and I saw that it was this free interaction, acknowledgement of some level of equality, that earned him such respect. I’d thought it unique to his guards and soldiers because of their shared military pastime, but it extended to farmers and merchants too, and even children, though I saw he was awkward around them, speaking to them like little adults.

When he returned at the end of the day, wrung out and wearing shadows under his eyes, I made a point to meet him in his study and watch while he made a record of letters in his ledger, writing back promptly and sealing the packet with a wax imprint of his sparrow. He still wore the chain loose about his throat, but touched it less frequently, his mind elsewhere.  
I had considered how to broach the topic of my sudden conductivity with no success—how do you even bring that up? _Hey, want to stick your finger in an electric socket?_

As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary. Waiting for him to finish and leafing lightly through a history, unable to read the letters but fascinated all the same by the print—Hakkai had taught me some of them, and I was beginning to pull out patterns—Kougaiji asked me to pass him the fine sterling stiletto that he used to slice open letters. I passed it without thinking, hilt first, and he gave a great shout, falling back onto his chair the moment he touched it and gripping his wrist, which smoked hotly. I dropped the utensil, seeing the edges seared and bent inward.

“God—are you alright?” I moved to touch him, to turn his hand over, and remembered Goku, stilling just in time. 

“I’m alright,” he said a little breathily, hissing at the pain of an open blister and rolling his sleeve up to reveal just how far along his arm the bolt had crawled. It went straight to the joint of his elbow before cutting off, though the entry wound was the most severe. I’d felt it travel through me and into him like a serpent, but I thought, maybe, I could remember the tug and pull of its energy even as it dove under his skin, reading him. It was as though a rope were strung taut between us.

“I’m sorry—this is my fault. I keep forgetting not to handle metal.”

Kougaiji furrowed his brow, “How long?”

“Only a day or two. I shocked Goku, too, without meaning to.”

“Does it hurt?” He looked expectant then, almost relieved, and I shook my head. “It’s the sutra,” he said. “You travel by lightning. Perhaps you fight with it too.”

“Don’t your histories mention any of that?” I grumbled, leading him—by the sleeve—down the hall and to the bath of my own quarters one floor above, amazed that he relented and trailed behind me, still holding his wounded handed out. We made quite a picture, I’m sure; one of the maids gawked at us. She was busy packing—everyone, even the servants, were to leave by the next morning. Dropping some of the towels she carried, she asked if the king was alright.

“I’m fine—only a scratch. A burn,” Kougaiji corrected himself. When I had him seated on the marble edge of the wide sunken tub, I dampened a cloth and tossed it to him, letting him press the icy fabric against the bolt-mark with a hiss, looking relieved.   
“No, by the way. The histories do not mention how your ancestor first fought Ukoku. They say only that he used the sutra—no one could get anywhere near enough to tell what elements were involved. There was, though, a great storm over the castle on Melorodon. It’s conceivable that he used lightning—it’s fire and air both.”

“Yeah but now I’m never sure if touching someone is going to injure them. God help us if you get a hug.”

Kougaiji snorted in amusement, wrapping the ivory cloth about the heel of his palm. “How do you eat, then, if touching utensils melds the edges?”

“Goku brings things that don’t require them. So long as no one else is acting to ground the electricity, I don’t think it would have a very dangerous effect.” I had already attempted this before, and brushed my fingertips along the gold of my layered breastplate by way of example; he saw them spark, and winced for my sake.

“It doesn’t hurt you?”

“Not a bit. Then again, after getting hit by the mother of all lightning bolts holding your ancestor’s damned helmet, it would take a lot to match up.”

“Do you remember anything of it—the passing, the moving between worlds?” He seemed curious, and not ready to leave yet, so I sat back on the wide lip of the sink, feet dusting the elaborately tiled mosaic floor. 

“I remember that it hurt like fuck all.”

Kougaiji nodded, unabashed, “I should think it would.”

“I felt like I was drowning, for a while, and couldn’t breathe. I’m not sure if that’s because my lungs stopped after the shock or because I wound up in the bottom of your fountain.” For the hundredth time that day, I looked down at my hands, wondering how they could transfer that sort of power without bearing a mark. Seeing it done by someone else—Kougaiji’s throwing fire to light the lamps, Hakkai’s summoning of a dragon with the pan pipes—was one thing, but to be in control of it myself, to _feel_ it working, was quite another. 

“You’ve asked me a lot of questions about Erythros,” Kougaiji began, perhaps reading my mood and trying to forestall it, “and about how things are done here. I feel very rude not to have inquired about your own world. What do you call it, your country?”

“My country? The United States.”

“Ah.” If he thought it unoriginal, he didn’t say so. “We have states too. How many are yours?”

“Fifty.”

He seemed impressed, and more so when I attempted to relate the size of them, using what little I knew of Erythros and its maps as a guide. “My country is just a little larger than your island, but the whole continent is more than Melorodon and Erythros put together, by what I can tell.”

His eyes widened, “So large? And one man governs all of this?”

“Oh—no. The U.S., sure, kind of, but we’ve got countries to our north and south too, sharing borders. And there are six other continents, too.”

“Surely not as large,” Kougaiji suggested.

“Some are smaller—Asia is much, much bigger.”

“Asia.” He repeated the name, trying out the foreign word carefully on his tongue. “And this is divided up too, into countries? Ruled by many kings?”

“Yes—but not all kings. That’s sort of out-dated, where I come from. The few kings my world has are more figureheads than heads of state. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying nepotism has died out—not even a little—but direct descent to determine rulership is outmoded. We haven’t had the best luck with that method. My own country doesn’t even have a king—the man who rules it is elected, a new one every four years. I guess that’s simplifying it, though—he doesn’t really _rule_ it; he’s one third of a system. A court and a congress balance out his influence.”

Kougaiji looked mesmerized at the thought of a new king every four years, and I wondered if I was supposed to have said anything at all. Was there some unwritten rule about the exchange of information between worlds? Surely not—when would he ever come to mine? Maybe it would do us some good if he _did_ —no politician was as forthright as Kougaiji.

“I can’t imagine very much gets done—my own Council makes passing any sort of law rather difficult, and if you have a new man to learn to trust every four years…”

“Yeah—you’re dead on. Very little gets done, in the long run, or at least that’s how it feels.”

“And yet you shun a monarchy.” He said it gently, shifting on the smooth stone and dabbing at the injury again. I doused the cloth from the ewer near the sink’s basin—one poured it in and there was a drain, rather than a working faucet—and handed it back to him.

“We haven’t had the best luck with them. If they worked as they did here, maybe people wouldn’t have rebelled.”

“Why are they so different—because of the size of the land?”

“Because of the nature of the monarchs.” I explained. “Back home they’re concerned about taxes and nothing else.   
Okay—maybe that’s simplifying it a bit,” I allowed, “but it’s only few and far between that you get a leader who really, authentically cares about his people enough to sacrifice something of himself to rule them. They see it as a cushy job, a long string of perks, instead of the life choice it should be. Very few will dedicate themselves even to a single cause—they’re too busy flip-flopping on major issues to please the voting public, and in the end no one really trusts them, even if they wind up making the more popular choice, because everyone knows them for liars.”

Kougaiji’s frown deepened; “I do not think I would like your world very much,” he said carefully. “What sort of leader could put his people through that?”

“Or her.”

“Or her people,” Kougaiji said with a shrug, and I could tell he found it odd that I would feel the need to add that, in a land where female rule was not uncommon. It was almost reflex, after so many heated debates back home. 

“If we could have someone like you—well, it would be a different story. I’ve seen you; you don’t think yourself above anyone else, and you take everything as seriously as a heart-attack. When you send men off to war, you _feel_ it, which means you wouldn’t send them for nothing. You trust everyone as much as you ask them to trust you. In the circumstances of Erythros, and with its good fortune in a choice of king,” I decided, “monarchy definitely trumps democracy, if only because it’s more efficient. But the problem is that with kings, you can’t pick and choose. There’s no way you’d be lucky enough to wind up with someone of such character over and over. We have to reserve the right to choose.”

He looked greatly flattered by my analysis, and I shrugged it off.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly, his eyes darker and seeking mine out across the narrow mosaic path between us. “I wish I were half of what you saw me to be.” 

“You’re plenty.” The air was charged, and this time it wasn’t because of my sutra; I stood up and took the cloth again, dampening it and holding it out. “Aren’t you tired, playing crossing guard all day?”

He didn’t understand the reference, but nodded none the less, accepting the cloth with a word of thanks and pressing it over his injury. I saw already the blister that had filled so quickly had gone down, flattened, and become a thick white line. Was that his magic, too? He saw me looking, and held his hand out.

“I heal a bit more quickly because of it.” The king shrugged to me, smiling a little. “A ‘perk’ of kingship—is that what you called it?”

“Yeah. This indoor plumbing is another ‘perk,’ I gather?”

“Yes.” He agreed, “Though I’m certainly not the only one who has a drainage system installed in his home. It’s not terribly complex or expensive, I’m told. In the city, because of the pipes that run underground, at least half of the homes have them. My father had funding put aside, resources I have still not had to touch, that in ten or twelve years would allow us to provide all city homes with it.”

“For free?”

“Not for free,” Kougaiji shook his head, “it’s their tax money. But it’s toward the public good—sanitation was always a pet project of my father’s. Two years before his departure, he began drawing up plans for public baths. We had them once, ages ago, during the reign of my great-grandfather, but they were torn down after an earthquake left extensive damage. I think contributing to the installation of private water sources would be more effective. We would start with households that held more than six, and work our way down.” He had given it a good deal of thought. 

“Well, at least then you could tax the water.” We were walking out into my bedroom now, and I saw him fidget with the tea service, recently blackened by my thoughtless touching that morning, when Goku brought tea. Thankfully he had been across the room and working through scones when it happened.

“I beg your pardon?”

I repeated myself with a shrug, and he burst into laughter.

“Tax _water_? You’re not serious?”

“Sure I am. Charge for it, do something with it.”

“How could I ask them to pay me for something that is not mine? Don’t tell me they do that in your world?”

I bobbed my head in a nod, smiling because he was—even if it was an ironic expression, this evening had been the first time I’d seen any sign of mirth in a good while. I heard someone shuffle by outside, and found myself hoping whoever it was wouldn’t enter. I wanted this to myself. 

“That is quite…industrious of them.” He said tactfully, putting the clouded silver down lightly. 

“Well, they charge, at least in theory, not for the water itself, but for the systems that carry it to the buildings. You don’t have to fetch it yourself.”

“Then how do you ever get it into second-story buildings?”

“Pressure and pipes. Linguist, remember? Not an engineer.”

“Of course,” Kougaiji quenched his curiosity for the moment, “But that is still fascinating. Outside of ground-level fountains, I couldn’t imagine doing that. Or asking people to pay for it.” 

I shrugged. “Everything costs.”

“Sadly,” Kougaiji said with a murmur of agreement. “But you’re right; it is late. Is there anything I might--”

“Get for me? Really?” I was still a little unnerved at the idea that a king might offer his services. I’d never heard of a priest out-ranking royalty outside of India, and even then there was a good amount of give and take between the two. 

“Yes, really.” 

“No, nothing. I have everything I need, and Goku besides. That offer goes both ways, you know. I’d say ‘within reason,’ but since I’m already going out to slay a monster for you, I can’t imagine what might be outside of--”

“There is.” Kougaiji broke in, looking suddenly apprehensive when I let him. “Something.”

“Okay?” 

“Your mark. I’d like to see it.”

“My mark?” I repeated, blinking, and then realized he meant the scar where the lightning had struck me four weeks ago.   
“Yes. I’ve seen it on your father, but never on you. I remember it was curious looking, like a tree almost, or the lightning itself. Isn’t that funny, how when it hits something, it branches off just as it does in the sky?”

I loosened the deep purple tie at my waist and unbuckled the breastplate carefully. Since I had started wearing it regularly, I’d learned how to remove it without much trouble. It was a good thing now too, since anyone else’s touching that much hammered gold while I was connected to it might leave them severely injured or otherwise. 

Laying it aside, I shrugged out of the top half of the robe, letting the sleeves fall down neatly to pool about my wrists, glancing at the reddened scar myself. It had healed nicely, and the bandages had since been removed, but every detail was still etched in scarlet over my skin, one long, thick line traveling downward like a root that trailed my chest and ended just above the arch of my ilium, and from it stemmed dozens of smaller ones where the electricity had broken free and coursed over the surface of my skin, searing away the fair hairs and most of the sensitive flesh. It was like scar tissue, but still ached mightily when it rained, and the cold irritated it. Heat, however, had no effect. 

Kougaiji eyed it curiously and approached with a bit of caution; I thought he was wary of another bad jolt, but realized, when he ventured out to touch my shoulder, that he was hesitant to invade my personal space. I didn’t back off, and felt the warm weight of his hand as it traced the raised line across my collar bone. 

“It’s very lovely.”

“I don’t know if that’s the word I would use,” I said drily. “But it will sure make a story, won’t it?”

“I should think.” In the dim light flickering from the lit lamps overhead, I saw shadows dance over his own markings, scarlet slices of color across the bronze of his face. They were easy to observe when his eyes were occupied, tracing every possible tail end of the maze of electric scarring. 

“Where are your marks from? I saw Lirin had them too—familial?”

“They are.” Kougaiji stood up straight again, his gaze finding mine. “My father has them also, as did his father. They are a sign of our dynasty.” 

“Do they always show up in the same place?”

“On the face? Usually. I have them elsewhere.” He said it matter-of-factly, but didn’t offer up any information about where ‘else’ was, and I didn’t ask. 

I drew my sleeves back up over my chest just as he stepped back to go, bidding him goodnight. 

“Goodnight. And it was pleasant speaking with you, Samuel.” 

I was stupidly nervous at the use of my name; it sounded funny, intimate, on his tongue, and I shrugged. “Same here.” 

He tilted his head a little at me speculatively, and gave a half smile before shutting the door with a soft click. I was able to fall into sleep without much effort that night, so much so that when Goku came around what must have been eleven, I was out cold and only jerked awake when he touched my shoulder. Usually a direct touch, with no metal present, did little damage, but because I was startled it something set off, and I watched him jerk back with a hiss and wag his hand in the air, cursing.

“Sanzo you shocked me!”

“I’m sorry.” I sat up, letting him hold his hand out for inspection; it was only a small burn, but probably stung like the devil. 

“Kougaiji said that he thought that might be normal, for people like me.”

“To sting your own valet, I hope not!” Goku scolded and jerked his thumb over one shoulder to a tray, clean and polished where the ruined one had been when Kougaiji visited. “Usually you ain’t asleep yet, so I brought tea as to make ya tired.”

“Thank you. But I wouldn’t bring it close, if I were you. I’m a walking electrical storm. If this lasts, at least I can power my own air-conditioning.”

Goku smiled without understanding the joke and gave the bedding a pat instead of my shoulder, “I’m goin’ ta bed then, Sanzo. You’ll haveta call on me if you need anythin’; the palace is almost all cleared out, and by morning even the cooks will be gone. Kougaiji says it ain’t safe, and he won’t let anyone not trained to fight stay.”

“What about Hakkai?” I asked tiredly, thinking that he wouldn’t like to be moved farther from Gojyo yet, preferring to hole up in his small apartments above the smoky stables.

“Oh, he’s got Hakuryu; nothin’s better than a dragon for protection. Kougaiji wouldn’t think of makin’ him leave.”

“You visited today?” I asked.

“Yes.” He was already backing out the room as I lay back down, still speaking.

“Did he mention anything else, word from Gojyo?”

“They’re fightin’ now, so he’s only got a few lines scratched out, he says.” Goku’s mouth pinched in a tight line. “I shouldn’t like to give you nightmares, Sanzo,” he warned, “but he says things aren’t going well, not at all.”

 

\-----

 

When I returned to my office to retrieve the fallen letter-opener, I plucked it up carefully not sure how much, if any, residual energy might linger on it. It was little more than a prick of power, like the sort one feels from rubbing something along a wool rug on a winter day. I sliced open the last of the letters and read them, having had the bulk of the story from Suelep’s communication, to which I had already responded. Dragons fly quickly, especially at night and over the seas, where the wind is strong. They should have it by sunrise.

Because of time, he had very little opportunity to write anything detailed, and penned out only a disjoint set of lines giving me the root of the necessary information, all of which made my stomach sink. Dokugakuji’s men would have arrived just as the letter was going out, so I had no word of them, but of the remaining army’s condition, which was poor. 

I’d sent rations out in plenty with Doku’s ships, but Suelep assured me in a handful of words that food was not the issue; they had enough of it to go around, especially with casualties mounting. The injured were comparatively few; most who suffered a wound from one of Ukoku’s earth creatures, orcs of twisted shape and face, didn’t live long enough to be dragged from the field. Their concern was holding that field and fighting them off from the beaches. They told me that the ships that remained were already burned, and those that I had ordered sent out would be torched upon arrival, after being emptied of men and cargo. They would not make it easy for the army to cross the seas into Erythros, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they did. Surely three days was not enough.

Suelep reported that Xaja’s battalion had suffered the heaviest casualties, having been the recipient of a particularly brutal night ambush a day earlier. Orcs did not stop fighting because the sun went down, and the entirety of the army could never be put to use at one time; they slept and fought in shifts to match the endless energy of the enemy. So far the camp had been pushed back another two miles, but they dug their heels in and held their ground the past night, a good thing, because they were nearing the bogs, where no creature could fight. 

There was no sign of the Melorodon natives, and Xaja wrote that he was quite certain they had all already been destroyed. Suelep’s letter suggested that they hid underground, but why they wouldn’t come up to aid their ally was beyond him; in the end, they would die just as brutally. 

The conditions were deplorable and men needed sleep; none had been given a burial yet, and most of the bodies lay among kites on the field, unreachable. Unlike mortal enemies we had faced before, these demons had no care for corpses, and trampled them in their haste to advance, refusing the living soldiers passage to give their dead rites. I would hold a mass funeral ceremony for them later if, _if_ , I reminded myself, the gods were kind and spared us. Surely they would not have sent Sanzo if they didn’t intend to. 

My orders were much unchanged; we were fighting defensively, and only for time. When I wrote that it grieved me heartily not to be there fighting among them, to know that my presence presented a greater threat to them than my absence, I wondered if it sounded as cowardly as it looked. They all knew it to be true, but despite it, there was the fact that I wasn’t present, I wasn’t risking life and limb, and it chilled me. I scratched out the words and ignited the paper, starting over again on my letter back to Xaja. He would receive it a few hours after Suelep saw his, but I had no real news for either of them. 

Gojyo wrote, but only in brief, and I knew most of his energy went into battle, sleep, and his correspondence with Hakkai. He thought I didn’t know—with Dokugakuji his own kin, and he thought I didn’t know!—and I wished he might have told me. There is a marriage document I wouldn’t mind signing; I should like to have the two joined, a noble couple. But I was privately glad he put his heart into his letters, saving for me only the curtest of messages, the energy that remained. Hakkai was deserving of his attentions, and I imagined for a moment those brief snatches of thought at the end of the day bleeding onto paper, comforting him with the knowledge that someone would be reading his words by morning. I wondered then, in the back of my head, if his brother did the same, and if my letter would be the curt one. 

I fell asleep with my selfish thoughts, and I had hardly put my head down and the sun was up again, pricking the shells of my eyelids and urging me up. No breakfast was waiting, which suited me fine, and I rifled through the long pantry and salt house beyond for food, pleased to find that it was mostly emptied out. I’d insisted the household servants divvy it up among themselves; it would go bad, sitting here in their absence, and in these conditions their weekly pay would do them little good on the roads. 

The city was inhabited only by ghosts, devoid even of animal life; the sparrows that flew there had evacuated with the population after harvesting what they could of the gardens and cleaning their nests of useful things. I couldn’t hear their songs when I road down dust and debris-ridden streets, and found the silence unnerving. I was accompanied only by the clatter of hooves and the words of other guards; I’d gone with them to investigate the buildings and chase out anyone who thought to make a fortress of his home. 

There seemed to be none left, and while we had fanned out among various sectors of the city, calling in the streets and inspecting any locations that seemed suspicious, the entire job still swallowed most of the day. I flung open doors without entering the homes, one at a time and then, impatiently, all at once with a flick of my wrists, startling a few summer beetles and one disappointed humming bird, but finding no others. When we met the hour before sundown, hearing thunder on the horizon, my men reported similar circumstances throughout. My capital was empty, and I sent two of the men with me to catch up independently and trail the baggage train, checking for any who had fallen behind or become injured on the march. 

When thunder cracked hard in the distance, a strange sound under the dying sunlight that hung directly overhead, one of the men jumped. “Sorry,” he said while the others chuckled, making light of it. “But usually when I hear something that loud, it’s my wife. We’re on edge, of late, with another little one coming. If you think the clouds are loud…”

The others chortled, and I smiled to him, hoping it didn’t appear as wan as I did tired, when I was truly pleased. 

“Congratulations to your wife and you. She is traveling in this condition? You had arrangements made?” Out of nowhere came the thought that I might soon be saying the same to Dokugakuji and Yaone, and my stomach tightened into a cruel fist. 

“Oh yes—a wagon, very comfortable, at a slow pace,” he assured me. “She’s tough as nails, and if she gives birth on the road, it’s only the poor horses I’d worry for, what with their sensitive ears.” 

I thought by his accent and account that he must have been from the highlands, where women made very little fuss over childbirth, and men bore mortal wounds with hardly a grunt. They were bred to pain, and fearsome in combat. I flicked my gaze down the street where the other two men had just ridden off, turning my horse the other direction and keeping my voice level. 

“I think two was not wise; you should follow and catch up with them. Once you’ve secured the roadway, you might seek out your wife.”

Instead of spurring his mount southward, I heard the clop of hooves catch up with mine. “I shall if you will it, Sire, but if it’s only a favor, I’d rather stay here for the last sailing, if it’s all the same to you.”

I was surprised, hearing not pride in his voice, but an honest desire to fight. Nodding, I inclined my head. “As you like.”

When we rode back, I saw dragons circling overhead, Hakuryu and a smaller, teal-colored creature with bright gold eyes. Sanzo was riding, exercising them and perhaps easing his own mind as well. I supposed Goku was on the other, green tailing white as they streaked across the sky. I wondered if he’d heard anything from Hakkai, or if my own letters had come in yet, and road swiftly up the steep cobbled hill that led to the portcullis, hearing the others fall behind.

TBC....


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah bonding and angst.

I had counted down the days; there were two left, and they dragged by, weighty with anticipation and nerves. I wasn’t sure of how to spend them. Were they my last two days in Erythros, or my last two days alive? There was no way to know, and I tried to imagine what I would do if I returned home. First, I realized, I might want to figure out where “home” was. My niche in the wall apartment on Pilcock, my office at the university? They seemed no more like a safe haven than the hole I had dug, thirty feet deep with a five foot pit in the center where a helmet once was. At least that had led me somewhere. 

Without the search for my father to drive me, I noticed I was treading water, waiting for a place to retire to and make a shelter out of. Pity I couldn’t stay in Erythros after all. I’d realized some time that day, hundreds of feet overhead and clinging with greater courage to Hakuryu’s back and scales, that I would be more comfortable here. 

Of course I couldn’t live as a permanent guest of the palace, but I was picking apart their dialect and writing system easily enough, as Hakkai showed me more and more hints from Gojyo’s letters, reading them aloud and letting me match sounds to symbols. I could make myself useful, I could make a _life_. I didn’t mind so much giving up Samuel for Sanzo, because despite the three-continent map and ahistoric villas dotting foreign countryside, here, I felt a little less lost.

 

\------

 

I waited for Kougaiji again in his mahogany and leather study, seeing him wearied and a little bit sunburned, though the day had ended hours before his return. After patrolling the city, he had reviewed his troops, the very small contingent of twenty men who were to sail the ship with him, and with me, to Melorodon in two days’ time. Less than that, by night. A courier had delivered a small bundle of letters while I sat, and I’d peered at the writing atop them without touching, recognizing nothing but a few letters, though I knew one came from Suelep, because I was able to piece out the symbols that made up the sounds of his name. 

“Samuel.” Kougaiji greeted me with a nod as he strode in, and I wondered when he had started calling me by my given name, and why I hadn’t noticed sooner. Or was this the first time since the baths?

“Is there something--”

“No, nothing. I just thought I’d like to hear the news too, if you can give it out.”

He nodded, looking tired, and I wondered if it had been a mistake; perhaps he would rather read them in private, though we both knew what grievous things they might potentially report. There could be no good news, only something less grave than the day before. “Would you rather I--”

“No, sit. Please.” He held a hand out as if to nudge me back into place without rising from his chair behind the desk,   
Unfurling the packet, he glanced over Suelep’s first; I could see that it wasn’t very long, but was unable to read his face, stern as ever as his eyes flicked lower. To avoid staring, I busied my gaze with the walls, panels of mahogany and walnut carved neatly, looking almost Victorian among such Medieval and even Byzantine décor. I’d seen it all before, though never under close scrutiny, as I had no reason to enter the room without the king being present. There was a wall-hanging near the window, whose draperies had been drawn, that depicted some sort of battle on scarlet; by its faded colors I guessed it was very old, but well-maintained without a speck of dust clinging to its folds. I rose to inspect it at a nearer proximity, tracing the elegant stitching with my eyes, hands at my sides to avoid the temptation of stroking the well-wrought wool. Everything they had was ancient; it might crumble at my touch.

The colors were all very bold, just like the clothing and curtains and bedding that decorated the palace. Crimson and gold—the tassels were metal, bullion—and a deep, startling azure. In the border, worked into curling patterns that must have taken hours, I saw a rich royal purple and hints of emerald. The craftsmanship brought to mind fragments of the Bayeux Tapestry, though the dying king in this image didn’t have an arrow in his eye, but a sword through his heart. He looked very noble, balanced on one knee like a bowing knight, as if the gory wound sapping his life were nothing more than a nuisance, an obstacle or burden commonly contested by kings. Maybe that’s why Kougaiji had it hanging there; it was a fitting allegory, after all. The warrior stood quite alone, unassisted by any others, though there were plenty in the brawl around him, and his enemy was clad in black, his face obscured by what looked like a helmet. 

A page crinkled, and I turned to see Kougaiji turning the page, opening another letter with eerie efficiency, his movements almost robotic. I saw him use the sterling knife that I had injured him with the night before. This one was shorter yet, and the third even more so, requiring only a glance. There was a fourth, I had seen, but he didn’t open that, setting it beneath the others and turning to face me, striding to meet me before the tapestry. 

“Do you like it? My ancestral grandmother Siesirb made it, five generations ago.”

“It’s excellent work. What is the battle?”

“We called it Muili. Our king, her son, is the one you see there.”

“Is that really how he died?”

“It is. He had no son at the time; his younger brother took the throne, inherited our…abilities.”

“Who was the man in black there?” I gestured without touching the fabric.

“An amalgamation of many enemies. I don’t recall the name of the general who slew him, though he certainly didn’t do it alone. He was of a very powerful family too; they were put to death, after this.”

“What, all of them?”

“How else? Power is inherited in this fashion; we couldn’t risk another rebellion.” Kougaiji spoke so simply of it that I realized it was less reality than history to him, pages from a book he’d probably had to memorize in youth. I couldn’t see him putting that many people to the block solely because of a single man’s betrayal. But then I remembered Goku, and the look of relief in his eyes at my suggestion the next morning. Maybe he could have. Maybe, if it were necessary. 

“Do you have any more families like this, of significant power?”

“Not to match ours.” He said solemnly, “Though plenty of great talent. Most are lords over territories, guardians of various regions who report to the crown. It’s most effective to put them in power, so that the mere knowledge of their capabilities would prevent rebellion.”

“They’ve all been sent out then?” I inquired, glancing back at the pile of letters. He nodded.

“Yes. Many of them are dead. It will be difficult to patch the kingdom back up, after this, but we’ve handled it once before, long ago. We can manage again.”

By we, he meant me, and I repressed a shudder only with a good deal of effort. 

“They’ve pushed our men back another half mile—not so bad as yesterday, but they’re wearying fast. Orcs don’t sleep, and even those men of mine that are able don’t get enough of it. The fighting is very fierce; the wound must be mortal, or the beast will regenerate. As it is, they are unending, born of the ground.”

I thought of black, mud-slicked creatures from a horror film and wondered if they fought with weapons or merely teeth and claws, and if they were made of rocky soil, were they impenetrable? It sounded like something from a nightmare, an unending army so cruelly competent that it had no need of a field general. 

“Will we pass through them to reach the castle?”

“Yes. Oh.” He frowned at me, “It won’t be any trouble, breaking a line through them. For me.”

I nodded, wondering how his magic looked on a larger scale, able to decimate legions. “Ukoku could lure you?”

“Yes. And if he does, it is your responsibility to see to it that he cannot use me for his own ends.” 

“I’ll work quickly so that it doesn’t happen.” 

“If slaying my father becomes necessary to get to him, you may have to kill me too,” Kougaiji reminded, and I frowned hard.  
“It won’t come to that. And if it might—why go? Why not go with your sister and your people? Isn’t their well-being worth more than pride?”

“It isn’t just pride.” Kougaiji said quietly. “You will need help entering, and I would not have you face my father or Ukoku alone.”  
He turned abruptly, going to the door, “Come with me, and I will show you where we will sail.”

He took me to the Council room, empty now and hung thick with shadows. The sconces along the wall, little oil lamps, he lit all at once with a flick of his hand, striding to the front wall where the raised map lay, the jewels that marked various cities glinting in the slanted light. He drew his finger through the blue enamel of the sea.

“We leave from our northern coast, where Erythros gives off into an inlet and then widens, taking us past the shores of Glaukia toward Melorodon’s southernmost border. It is here that the volcano is, and Ukoku’s domain.” He tapped the cushion-cut ruby with a nail. “The land beyond used to be much greater, but the massive eruption centuries ago sent much of it breaking off and into the sea. The flood of water over slanted land that ensued brought the marshes closer in too.”

I ran my hand over the name of each country, stopping at Glaukia, all in grey, and looking to where the land of it ended abruptly at the corner of the map, cut off by an intricate border in garnet and gold. “Why did you cut it off here?”

“Because no one knows what is beyond that point at Glaukia.” He touched the very edge of it, where a little tiger’s eye rested. Kougaiji said that it marked a waterfall, one of the few things that could be seen of the land from the shore.

“Your men have never circled it? How do you know it’s not as big as Asia?”

He remembered the name from last night and smiled. “We don’t. But it’s impenetrable. Very few men have survived exploration of it, and those who have are often senseless afterwards, speaking nonsense and not knowing where or who they are. From what we can tell, they hardly pierce the fog that surrounds it. Very, very little is visible. Some believe it is where spirits dwell.”

“It sounds like a wasteland, or maybe all covered in craters.” To me, it seemed like some toxic planet, permanently surrounded by sulfurous fumes and mysterious drifts of shadow. “How close will we come to it?”

“Rather close; you’ll be able to reach out and grip the mist; it becomes quite thick. Don’t worry; we have experienced sailors, and so long as you sail away from the grey, there is little to run into. Melorodon’s rocky shores are a good distance; we’ll be at sea for half a day.”

I had never sailed on a ship, and said so.

“You’ll fare well. The waters are calm enough.” When he leaned forward, rubbing his fingers over the worn letters of Erythros, I saw his eyes fall shut, knowing the pattern by heart. He looked like an oil painting in the half-light, like something early-modern, lost between the light of the Renaissance and the soot-covered darkness of modernity, a face that couldn’t be placed. 

Darkness fell over his eyes, the curtain of his hair blocking it from his nape and cheekbones, obscuring the long, narrow lines of his hands into bizarre patterns on the wall. I touched one of the shadow-hands, clasping it under mine as though to hold it still, and his gaze lighted on me, watching. He looked tired, but calm.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“I am terrified,” Kougaiji said simply.

“You don’t show it.”

“Neither do you,” the king said in a dulcet, appreciative tone, his eyes soft as he watched me. He was grateful, after all, despite all his talk of duty and obligation. He was glad I said yes, and so was I; where else better to be, than where you’re needed?

“I’m still hedging my bets, hoping this might all wind up to be a dream after all.”

Kougaiji laughed and drew me aside, leading me back into the empty corridors. He lit them all at once, splendidly, and even the chandelier began to glisten under the flames, bathing the room in a white glow. “Then let me hope this with you.”

We went to the dining hall and then past it, to a small chamber near the aviary that looked like a formal parlor, decorated in paintings and pilasters decked with dried garlands that still carried a scent. Couches lined the walls and delicate chairs sat in twos and threes beside tea-sized tables laid with stained glass and painted porcelain. From a carved cabinet that was most definitely baroque—did they have baroque, in Erythros?—he drew out heavy crystal goblets and a decanter full of a blood red wine that smelled vineyard fresh when he lifted the faceted stopper. 

He poured either goblet full and left it on one of the lower tables before a couch, sitting atop the satin lining with me. 

He held up his glass in a mock toast, and I clinked mine against it, which made him smile crookedly. “Is that how you do it?”

“What, toast? Of course. You touch your glasses together.” I drank carefully, surprised at the taste, nothing like the twenty-dollar bottles I used to bring home. It was good, and there was hardly a burn to it when I swallowed. I would hardly have known it to be alcohol. 

“Drink as you like; it won’t leave you with a headache,” Kougaiji promised, draining his glass at a steady rate, but looking no more comforted for it. He only did this when he saw me lean back, clinking our glasses again, for the novelty of it. 

“I like your customs. Tell me another of them?”

I had no idea where to start. “What do you want to know? Forks on the left, knife blades facing inward?”

“A dinner table setting?”

“Yeah. I noticed here they all go on the left.”

“The glasses go to the right,” Kougaiji agreed with a nod. 

When I admitted to being at a loss with where to begin, he prompted me, “Tell me how things go at your home. What is it like, where you live, where you work?”

I didn’t know how to describe an apartment to someone who didn’t know the concept, but tried my best. “It’s like a little home within a few rooms, and there are dozens of them all piled together in one great building. Sort of like how your quarters and Lirin’s and all the maids’ are stuck within the palace, only in an apartment, there is no common area; everything is private.” I recalled the dreary décor—lack of décor, really—the worn carpeting and chipped linoleum tiles of the kitchenette, the brand new furniture that stood out against pale walls and scuffed up baseboards. I had a secondhand desk and a top of the line computer where I did most of my research, a worn chair that had a me-shaped print in it, and a mismatched set of kitchenware that came from my dead aunt’s estate and dishes people brought over after my father’s disappearance that they never took back. It was lonely, quiet, but still noisy, full of clanging pipes and shouting neighbors and the barking dog two doors down that never shut up. 

“It’s not forever. Until I save up and buy a house.”

“Your work—research—will let you do this?” He filled my glass when it emptied, and I knew better than to keep going through it—Erythrian goblets were much larger than a serving back home—but I did anyways, maintaining his pace through the first few.

“It will, so long as I start to publish. I haven’t done much of my own work since my father vanished. I’ve been working from his notes and using what funds I had to conduct excavations. There have been a few grants from different universities, all knowing my father’s name and trusting his crew and my degree to find something useful.” I never published much on any of them, winding up with very little, and soon the offers dried up and so did my clues. Kougaiji’s helmet had been the last of them, and I couldn’t’ exactly write about that. 

“Did your father not live with you?”

“No. I lived on my own since college. School,” I substituted, and he nodded. 

“Always alone?” He seemed to find the idea unusual, and I told him lots of people did that. “But never a lover?”

I balked, realizing that was probably more socially acceptable to ask here than back home. “Not anyone I trusted enough to live with. I’m sort of hard to get along with in close quarters.”

“Ah. I would know nothing of that,” He said, cheekily polite, and watched me from the corner of his eye while he tipped the glass back. “Who was he?”

“Most people called him—wait a minute, ‘he’? I don’t believe I specified,” I snapped, watching his face morph into another amused expression, but gentle this time.

“Forgive me, I took a guess. I see I was correct?” 

“Okay, you pegged me,” I said a bit trenchantly. 

“Pegged?” 

“His name was Nick,” I said by way of answering, “And that was a while ago. And don’t give me that look; I’m too busy to be lonely. Hell, on a dig, I’m surrounded by people all day.”

“I admire your dedication to your father’s work.” 

“Thank you. You’d be the first.”

“You never speak of your mother.” Kougaiji said gently, seeming already to know.

“No one does. She died when I was young, complications after my birth. I have no memory of her, and my father only talks about her when I ask, or in passing.” He’d always spoken of her the way people do of a friend who had moved away with whom they were still close. He never openly acknowledged her death outside of his initial explanation to me, and for a long time as a child I’d thought maybe she still existed somewhere, and really was that friend who moved away. 

“Her name was Violette.”

Kougaiji smiled, “A flower. That’s pretty.” He sensed I was about to ask, and offered the information up himself. “My own mother passed away when I was young, though I remember her a bit. It was an illness, a wasting disease we have here, though very rare.”

“Then Lirin is not your full sister?”

“No. Her mother is still alive; she lives distantly, with relatives. She took ill after Lirin’s birth and never seemed to recover, though my sister writes to her often, begging her to come live in the palace.” 

I thought that was worse than having a parent dead, having one that you knew didn’t want anything to do with you. 

“What do you plan to do, Samuel, with your day tomorrow?” He asked me.

“I’ve been giving that a good deal of thought actually,” I admitted. “I keep thinking I should spend it meditating or something, or going to confession.” I chuckled, and then I had to explain what I meant by that, which Kougaiji found fascinating enough to turn into a half-hour conversation about this “thing called Catholicism.” 

“But I don’t think that would do me any good,” I segued artlessly once we touched on the nature of the confessional booth. “Besides that I’m not Catholic, I can’t imagine that reviewing my list of screw-ups is going to make me feel better before going to war.”

“Perhaps not. It is a shame you have no one to sit with, no one from whom to seek comfort.”

I shrugged, unnerved by his use of that word, comfort. He sat back, and I saw through the open throat of his indigo tunic the gold glint of his sparrow, catching the brilliant light of the room on its wing. 

“Neither do you.”

He looked into the dregs of his glass before draining them and setting it aside, still perfectly articulate, though he had outpaced me by two glasses halfway through an explanation of transubstantiation. I was amazed I could still pronounce it without lisping. 

“No,” He agreed finally. “But I did, once.”

“Dokugakuji,” I said without thinking, and he blinked at me. Did he really think it such a great secret? I remembered Goku’s words, a secret the whole palace knew, those two. 

“Yes,” he said carefully, his eyes very alert, making me feel dizzy and heavy-tongued by comparison. I wanted badly to pry, but knew better, and he was too proud to offer this. 

“No one should be alone, like this, but in the end I guess most people are, when you look at it.” He was silent for this, perhaps thinking of his men in the trenches and tents, pressed in like sheep but none of them really together, separated by the wide gap of their thoughts, locked in the icy grip of their fates. 

“I should…you’re going to get up with the sun, aren’t you?”

Kougaiji nodded, rising easily and shuffling the glasses away and into hiding. I walked with greater care, my balance not entirely off, but not what it was, either. I was glad we were going up the stairs and not down this time, but would sooner tumble down them than lean on his arm—it was only wine! 

“Thank you,” I said with a generic gesture, looking at the empty crystal. “For the drink.” He seemed to understand that I meant for the company, also, and nodded. 

“You’re welcome.” He followed me out soon after, and I heard the collective sigh of wicks being extinguished by unseen hands. That sound came again and again as we walked through the halls, and shadows chased us. When he bade me goodnight from his study, I heard inside only more being lit, and knew whose letter it was he hadn’t opened, and that he would be in there a time longer. Clutching the railing and glad for once for a lack of servants, I made my way cautiously up the carpeted steps, finding Goku waiting impatiently in my room with a cold dinner. I ate, heard his brief story about his only expedition on a ship, his trepidation about another, and then slept deeply.

I knew I would be sick come morning—that wine was strong, thick on the tongue. So I was pleasantly surprised when I woke feeling not at all different, lacking aches and pains with my equilibrium and appetite perfectly restored. When Goku came in, I remembered what day it was, and my stomach heaved with nerves. Kougaiji would be out, making himself useful somewhere, and what was I to do? 

“You look awful pale, Sanzo. ‘Rya sick, do you think?”

“No. Maybe,” I confessed, my voice a croak. 

“Let’s take a walk,” Goku suggested, and chattered all the way, keeping my mind occupied with a slew of stories and my feet with constant, winding paths through the garden that must have eaten up miles before I settled again. Who knew Goku was the balm for coming to terms with one’s own mortality? 

We were passing by the central fountain, a great blue-tiled masterpiece, the one into which I had fallen upon my arrival, and I took a moment to study it. I wanted to classify it as Roman, as Louis XIV, as Victorian. I couldn’t decide on it, watching the fish on their raised fins spit water out in arcing trickles. The stone sides were well worn, evidently having doubled as benches, but no coins littered the bottom. Not their custom, then. Or perhaps royalty simply didn’t possess small change. 

I sat on the edge, tilting my face upward and into the sun, wondering melodramatically if this would be the last time. It was rather macabre to think that way, but at least the weather had seen fit to make it pleasant. There was hardly a stitch of white overhead, nothing but a gentle blue all the way to the horizon where it gave way to the heavy green brush of trees. 

Honeysuckles were in bloom, winding heavily over several trellises, and roses hung from the walls, luring bees; I could smell them on the breeze, and it was a heady, dizzying perfume that mixed nicely with the herbs sprouting up between them. I felt Goku sit beside me when I closed my eyes again, kicking his feet at a pebble on the flagstones below. It was very quiet, and the usual chatter of birds had dwindled to a rare peep from a tree or an occasional panicked flutter of feathers. Somewhere in the distance I heard a door creak open and bang shut, a guard making his rounds or bringing in early mail. Gradually I erased the disturbance from my thoughts, looking only at the flora around us, remembering how it had appeared from overhead like colorful smears of pastels while riding Hakuryu low near the open castle gardens and the wide green leas. I could almost see them from here, beyond the black iron gate and ancient, flower-covered brick walls. 

This Eden made it easy to pretend this wasn’t going to happen, and I felt my stomach sink, sick, when I returned from the fantasy, wanting to have it done with and delay both at the same time. I read somewhere that soldiers go into battle expecting to die. They know they might not, but settled themselves with it just in case. That way, the heady rush of life was a gift, an euphoria at the end of things, and death was a sadness, but an anticipated one. I didn’t think a lifetime would be enough to adjust to the idea, so I tried to put myself into some sort of in-between, a state of recognition without contemplation, just above reality, just below relief. 

My hand slid back to touch the water thoughtlessly, and just as a fingertip brushed over the edge, just as I began to feel the buzz of electricity in my fingers threatening to burst forth, I heard a great cry from inside. Goku took off like a rabbit, barely pausing with the handle of the door, mostly barreling through it so that the old wood snapped and splintered on its hinges. I sat, frozen, every hair on end, my skin suddenly clammy under the heat of the sun. Kougaiji.

I was afraid to go in, to ask, to hear, because I knew that cry very well. His own guard could have stabbed him, and he wouldn’t have made a sound quite like that. It was the cry I’d given the night the police came to me to tell me my father was most likely dead, and that the search’s finds might be grisly. I’d exclaimed and lamented it many times. A person could produce keening funeral wails and the orchestrated, public noises that ranged from whimpers to outright howls, but the first, the realization and internalization of the knowledge, was a grieving-shout that was the same in any language. 

I made myself rise, forced my feet to move forward, and just before I could touch the door, scraping my fingers along peeling paint, Goku flung it open from within, his eyes wide, fearful. I brushed past him, at once sure that I didn’t want to hear it twice, and that I didn’t want to hear it from him. I turned the corner, and then again, seeing the detailed tiles spin below me and wondering if after all that wine had had some effect after all; I could hardly stand, and heard my heart thudding between my ears. And then I saw the guard, waiting awkwardly outside of the office, looking as though he didn’t know which way to go. I dismissed him and sent him back to his duties, and he shot me a grateful glance and gave a half-bow in his haste. 

I didn’t knock this time, slipping in quietly. Blinking, I don’t know why I was surprised to find the room flooded with light. I’d just been outdoors and knew it to be a bright day, blinding, even, but with that haunting sound still stuck between the rafters, I’d expected a space already in mourning, draped in dark and shadow. Instead, gold glinted off of the spines of scrolls and texts and sunk deep into the polished wood work. At first, I thought he had already left; a quick sweep of the room revealed nothing moving but the few dust motes that swirled through shafts of sunlight. I looked to the letter on the desk, still curling about the edges from where it had been unrolled, the wax stamp sliced neatly through the center. The name on it was Suelep’s, and although I couldn’t read the neat, slanting hand that covered the page, I knew what it said.

I saw him then, and he felt my eyes on him; he stood before the wide windows, the curtains drawn all the way back, making his silhouette glow a fierce red and gold. He seemed a part of the furniture. His back was very straight, and if I hadn’t known, I would think him busy concocting the next regimental alignment or mentally divvying up provisions among his troops. But I saw then the little twitch that came with his breath; it was reflexive, a physical attempt to tamp down surging panic and anguish. I took two steps forward, and his voice stopped me, cutting like a knife through the glistening air between us though it wasn’t cruel at all, only very tired.

“Dokugakuji is dead.”

I cringed, and he couldn’t see me. Another step, and he said, “Don’t.”

“Kougaiji.”

“Leave me.”

It was my every instinct to stay; not to was cruel, but I remembered too that need to be alone and surrounded both at once, but always a little more of the former. I obliged him, my robes dusting the floors as I went out, letting the door fall silently closed behind. I gave him a wide berth, and ordered the few remaining guards away from him for the day, and Goku too, keeping to our chambers. If he mourned aloud, I didn’t know it. In fact there was no one now to hear it, and I suppose the mute, gaping rooms and hollow corridors just swallowed up the sounds of grief. 

 

TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here have a sex scene. XD

Goku took care of dinner that evening, but I ate very little, my stomach a tight fist of nerves and melancholy. It was very difficult to mourn for someone I hardly knew, and liked even less. For some reason I found myself reflexively opposed to Dokugakuji after having heard of his impending marriage to Yaone. And Kougaiji had smiled, wished him happiness. What sort of fool spurns a king and then rubs it in his face? Surely it hadn’t been intentional, but how could he not have known? How could he not have known what the entire palace knew? Blinking, flipping the spoon clear out of my soup that had grown cold during my bout of contemplation, I realized I was angry for his sake, that my ire sparked like flint each time I thought of Dokugakuji’s refusal of him. I could think of no more noble a person, no one more worthy. 

“Sanzo?” Goku asked from where he sat near the door, keeping an ear to the crack for footsteps. There were few guards on our floor, but I think he was waiting to hear Kougaiji come up from his office, or wherever he had gone to. 

“Nothing.” Picking up the ornate sterling piece, I placed it to the side and pulled my feet up beneath the robes to balance at the windowsill, my forehead finding the cool glass of the pane. I had a fleeting moment of rapid thought, one notion jamming into another and streamlined by a colorful blur of sentiment. Irrational protectiveness, possessiveness, the urgent need to repair and rebuild as pieces of the otherworldly normalcy started falling down around us. Something spoke in me, saying I could do better, wishing I could go in and demand he purge the dead man from his thoughts and heart, let me take his place. _I could defend you better. Watch me, see me do better than him, who left you twice._

I shuddered, and Goku touched my shoulder. I didn’t know he’d approached. I almost asked him to bring up the wine, but would have been ashamed to use it to drown fear in front of him. He had become something of a younger brother to me.   
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t meanta scare ya. Can I bring you somethin’?”

“No, nothing,” I said, his murmuring tone catching. “Go to bed, if you like. We’ll be up with the sun I’m sure.” 

“It’s a bit of a sail,” Goku nodded, already headed for the door. “And we’ll want to get there at moonrise, as soon as we can, I reckon.” His hand was on the knob, but then it paused, releasing the brass-worked apparatus. He turned. “Look I wanna say. Just in case.” He coughed. “In case of the worst, I mean…thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes I do. You saved my life—you intervened. I’ve thought about it since then ya know. About how you said the gods told you. Even if they did,” and he didn’t seem convinced of it any longer, “I still owe you the thanks, for speakin’ up for me.”

“Like you said, the gods…” I waved my hand, not remembering the specifics of whatever story I’d given him. I smiled a little, and he grinned back, approaching swiftly and clasping my hand hard in his. For such a small stature, his grip was firm and very callused; I clutched back. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly, retreating again.

“Tomorrow.”

He gave a little salute, and I nodded, watching the door fall shut behind him and wondering how I would sleep that night at all. Did I have death inscribed on my face, that he would look at me in such a way? If I died, would it be a true death, or would I only return to my world? Was there a chance that I might take Ukoku with me? If I did, I didn’t think there was anyone who might defeat him there, or know how. If I didn’t, he would destroy Erythros here. 

_Best not to lose, then._

Just as my insides were rising up the column of my throat, threatening to claw their way out in a messy spew of panic and lost breath, there was a scratch at my door. Goku again; I imagined he’d decided he couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d let him stay with me, if he was nervous. 

“Yes. Come in.”

I was surprised to see Kougaiji enter in from the shadows of the hall, hair limp at his shoulders and tangled up in the heavy bronze plates of his earrings. My room was still bright, but the light seemed to dodge him as though, in mourning, he exuded some sort of miasma. I stood, and he shook his head, indicating I didn’t need to. 

“I’m sorry,” I said gently, trying to catch his eye. “About Dokugakuji.”

He was quiet a very long time, gazing about the room, the way I’d lit every lamp and drawn the curtains aside to lure in the moonlight. All the gold finishes glowed invitingly, and the polished wood of the bedstead and long night tables gleamed. Goku had removed the dishes, but the chased silver tea service practically blazed, set beside a spun glass sconce that covered a four-wick lamp. When he stepped beneath the candle-studded candelabrum overhead, his hair caught, flaming up in bright hues that made his gaze spark. Finally he said, “Thank you,” very softly, eyes distant. “I thought about it. What you said last night.” He turned to face me, and I thought the lines of his face were very beautiful—distractingly so. “You were right, I think.”

Frantically I sorted through my words, trying to remember which poignant conversation—

“No one should be alone, on a night like this,” he said, and I remembered saying it in passing, thinking it a pity he’d made no provisions for himself, sending everyone to safety at his own expense. I did stand this time, trying to read the shadows on his face, the dancing dark just beneath sharp collar bones. He was still dressed in regimental colors, a scarlet tunic layered in gold, the lapels heavy, velvet, and mostly open, baring the gleaming gold chain of the sparrow pendant he kept at his heart. I thought of how long he must have worn it, and remembered my father’s warning about speaking ill of the dead. But how could he _not_ have seen it?

Thoughtlessly, I reached out to touch it; I think my original intention had been to tear it free, seeking some way to rid him of the burden it represented, like loosing a horse from its tether or a prisoner from his shackles. Fleetingly, I realized that was what my father had wanted to do for me, but the circumstances were different. If he died, I know I was in his thoughts when he did. But Kougaiji…

His hand caught mine as it brushed the gleaming surface, warm from where it had been pressed against his skin. He brought the ridge of my knuckles up near to his mouth as if he would kiss them, make a pledge, but paused. His words came out a little breathy, “Would you have me leave?”

The question was utterly devoid of challenge, of pleading, of persuasion. It was hollow and genuine, as though he were asking me if I wanted another drink after all. I shook my head.

“No.”

In some distant part of my mind, I knew what he was going to do, and how this was going to play out. He kissed the hilly line of my knuckles, warm mouth just glancing across the skin, dry and firm. He drew me closer, and it was the first time I gave any thought to our heights, which were almost perfectly matched. His long hands drew my hair back, teasing it between his fingertips; I suppose he thought, by the color, that he would be soft, but it’s actually quite coarse. It fell back into place in messy shocks, and I blinked hard as his fingertips dusted behind my ears, down the sides of my throat, as though he were inspecting a fragile sculpture. Did he think me afraid, or was he merely curious? He was very gentle, though, for a man who trained and led armies. 

The metal of his earrings clicked as he leaned down, and this time I felt his mouth against mine, hot and wet and tasting strongly of honeyed nutmeg, like the spices in rich wine. One hand cupped my jaw, holding me to him, and the other held off, perhaps stiff at his side. He moved to draw away; I felt him hesitating, tensing, and lost my patience with the trial, fisting the lush fabric of his tunic and jerking him forward instead, one hand finally snarling in all that red hair.

_This is what you want, isn’t it?_

He liked it, I think, the tug, the possessive clutching, and made a pleased sound when my tongue pushed farther into his mouth, tracing the fine line of his teeth and the sensitive, ridged roof that made his fingertips twitch against my jaw. Shortly I felt his other palm on my back, my side, tracing the line of dark silk at my waist with growing interest. 

We stood that way for some time, ensnared in one another, tracing silhouettes and pushing open folds of fabric. He had my robes undone easily, tugging the tops down so that they bunched at my hips and left my chest bare. I watched his head dip with my breath locked in place, forgetting to exhale as he traced the long, manic line of the lightning strike over my shoulder and breastbone. He was kissing it almost reverently, and there were light shocks between the wet of his tongue and the raised scar tissue, just stronger than static. I remembered the letter opener and worried, but he only drew off his earrings and the buckle at his waist. As if to prove he was unafraid, he put my hands flat on his chest, and nothing jolted between us but heat. 

Shucking the heavy tunic first, he drew doeskin breeches down more slowly over strong thighs and then stepped back, an invitation. He let me touch him then, and reveled in it, sharp gaze sliding down over me and tracing every move. Kougaiji was lean, but not as slender as his clothing made him out to be; there was corded muscle there over arms and chest, and I saw that the scarlet markings of his face decorated his torso too, all on the same side, and one at the narrow dip of his waist. I took my turn there, kissing the colored skin and finding that its texture was no different from the rest, though I imagined it was warmer, like the flames he wielded. 

When I kissed him there, on his side, his breath caught and his fingers knotted in my hair, keeping me in place a beat longer, on my knees. I thought he would rather me there, but then suddenly he grasped my elbows and drew me upward, tugging the tie free from beneath the clumped linen of my robes so that it dropped. I’d worn kidskin trousers beneath ever since the first day, and he made quick work of them once he had me close, mouthing me with more aggression, his interest less furtive, less restrained. 

The oil lamps and candles went out, all but the one nearest the bed in a synchronous hiss. He bore me back against it, swiping off several of the decorative pieces onto the floor so that I found myself lying almost flat beneath him. I didn’t push him off.   
His movements were smooth, controlled, and his hands danced over the surface of my skin with interest, mouth pressing down where he suspected I would prefer it, and he was almost always right. 

An inquisitive, gentle tongue flicked out along the seam of my thigh, and his teeth were like small needles. 

It was all I could do not to jerk him down over me and rake his back with my nails. The thought to do so never even seemed to strike him; I kept waiting for that cry, that break in his placid façade, so that we could both devolve and give up complex worry to base need for a brief night. It didn’t come, and it occurred to me that it never would; Kougaiji wasn’t like that. In fact, I was fairly certain he didn’t know how to do anything _but_ make love. It was the one instance in which he could risk being gentle, letting his guard down, and he wouldn’t cheapen it. I thought of Dokugakuji seeing him like this, gentled down and vulnerable and aroused, and hated him for choosing something else. 

I heard the rasp and whisper of fabric when he finished undressing, and then he was over me again, body flush with mine and _pressing_. Moaning my appreciation—he seemed to like hearing it—I arched up and bound a leg loosely with his, locking us together unmindful of his heat. 

He kissed me a while longer, and when I touched him in turn, he finally made a sound. The plaintive noise slipped out with such relief that wondered how long it had been since he’d last been to bed with anyone, been touched. Had it been since _him_? 

He drew back, kneeling on the crinkled covers before me for a moment and then nudging my thighs apart, unembarrassed and blatantly appreciative, but with a still-schooled expression, never leering. 

“You really are very comely,” he said, and I remembered the comment that had riled me weeks ago, and then the king prostrated himself before me in an elegant sweep of movement. I thought it wretchedly unfair that he was most likely the only man in his world or mine who could look so composed, so elegant, doing something like that. And then I ceased to think at all, but some unidentifiable reflex tempered my volume. 

Two moments too soon he retreated, tumbling us again, and I found that the oil that burned in the lamp smelled like clover on contact, and was slick. Kougaiji’s hands wound in the hair at my nape, but didn’t pull. I felt warm fingers on my back, but never his nails. 

I think I said his name, maybe a few times, and maybe I was still saying it afterwards. For a while after there was nothing but the cooling sensation of air against damp, naked skin, and then the hot press of his touch on my forehead, smoothing back my hair. The room smelled of musk and sex and, beneath that, smoke. I sat up, dizzied by the hum still reverberating through me, and peered through the darkness. He lit the bedside lamp obligingly without rising, and I saw the edges of the sheets were blackened and smoldering still on either side. He gave me a bashful smile, tanned limbs spread out over the white of the covers, looking thoroughly relaxed. 

“Some trick you’ve got there,” I croaked, easing back down beside him, flicking damp hair from his chest and shoulders. He kissed me, chastely this time, and then again on my palm. 

“I feared for a moment you might shock me,” he said in a husky tone, and I smirked at him.

“What, you mean you didn’t feel that?”

The smile I received in return was a quiet one. “I felt it.” 

We slept while the moon rose high, and I woke to the sound of the covers rustling. Kougaiji had risen and I thought he was leaving, but when my gaze adjusted to the dark, I saw he was not even dressed. He held my robes up before him, laying them out over a chair, everything but the sutra, which had clung to me like a second skin all throughout. It struck me only then that it hadn’t harmed him—did it recognize him as an ally now, or was it safe to touch so long as I wore it? I didn’t voice the question; however it worked, he wasn’t harmed. 

The moonlight fell on him like veil, dusting his skin in a gauzy silver sheen and throwing shadows into the concave dips of firm muscle as he moved. He felt me watching and turned, head cocked a little to the side. “I woke you.”

“Nah.” Sitting up, the covers whispering beneath me, I felt his side was still warm. The singed sheets had stopped smoking though. “So I take it your priests aren’t supposed to be celibate?”

He looked baffled. “Why on earth would they want to be that?”

I chuckled. “I just thought I’d ask.” Another question sprung to mind, and I was still dizzy enough with elation or serotonin that I voiced it. “So this is…normal enough, here?”

Kougaiji blinked at me, the confusion in his face not yet having melted off, though he was endlessly curious about my world. “What, sex?” He snorted in amusement. “Quite normal.”

I rolled my eyes. “With men. Between men,” I specified, and he made a little “ah” sound in his throat.

“It is not unusual.” He watched my reaction closely, and then, “Is it, where you’re from?”

“That’s…a really complicated explanation,” I said warily. “It depends on where you’re living.”

He shook his head, but seemed content to chalk it up to a substantial cultural gap. “I’m glad you are here, then.”

“Me too,” I said quietly, feeling exhaustion pull at me anew, drawing me into the plush bedding. I watched him from where my cheek lay sunken in the pillow, eyes hardly open.

He stood still at the window. One hand brushed the curtains as though to close them and then, thinking again, he left them to hang open, looking straight down at the courtyard where the fish fountain gurgled. I knew the view well enough by now, having fallen asleep in front of it many times. While he looked on, his face was somber, solemn, and I wanted him back in bed. I couldn’t make him smile just yet, but I could make him calm. And then he touched the pendant thoughtfully, looking at its design, and I frowned hard. I ought to have seen it before, but he hadn’t been the only one who was lonely. 

“Kougaiji.”

He looked to me, his expression open, and there was no guilt there, which stoked my ire. Was he not aware of it either, even holding the memento like a lovelock? 

“Who did you see, just now?” I asked, hoping he thought well enough of me, at least, not to lie. He dropped the pendant back against his chest with a frown.

“A man willing to risk his life for a country that is not his own.”

He slid back into bed with me, drawing up the thinnest layer of sheets to drape across us like lace. Leaning over me, the kiss he gave was long, slow, and I counted the space of three breaths before he drew back. He lay beside me in the dark where I could not see him, but could hear the rich murmur of his voice.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“I am not hurt.”

“You believe a man only has room in his heart for one at a time.”

“I never said I believe that,” I protested thoughtfully. “It only seems strange,”

“That I should need comfort tonight?” He asked, and he might have turned it wry very easily, but didn’t.

“That you should seek it from me,” I argued instead, and I felt him finally smile.

“Selfish, but not strange, Samuel.” It was the first time he’d said my name that night, and I found I liked to hear it. 

“Selfish?” I snorted. “You’re too hard on yourself, all the time.”

“I do not think so. I ask you to give everything of yourself to my country, and then come back seeking to drain the last of it, in your bed.”

“You weren’t the only one who wanted it,” I reminded him, and he made a considerate sound.

“No,” he said. “But I was the one who asked.” 

 

\-----

 

The next morning dawned auspiciously bright, and we had very little to pack, and so were not hurried on our journey northward to the coasts. We each had a horse, and I was impressed by Kougaiji’s stance on it, looking almost like a centaur with the ease with which he balanced and steered, hardly needing the reins. There was a neat, square case attached to the horse’s saddle at the side that bobbed along with its movement; the glowing band about it matched the fabric of Kougaiji’s clothing. He wore white today, a glowing ivory that seemed impervious to the dust of the road, like my own robes which were miraculously unwrinkled despite the activity they saw the night before. 

I admire the way his bronze skin glowed against the pearly sheen of his tunic; he had replaced his earrings, and where his lapels parted in the front to reveal a deep brown V of skin, I saw hanging the gold pendant, and felt that same twinge of anger surge. 

It was his only adornment. Earlier, when we had woken up, I had kissed his hand and found the right one rimmed with a band of fairer skin where a ring had once been. Remembering the signet, the sign of his reign, I’d asked.

“Lirin has it,” he had said, “just in case.”

I saw he was uneasy speaking of it and made some joke about Lirin playing regent that caused him to smile a little and dress with lighter movements. He’d kissed me in the doorway, and then again once more in the corridor, just long enough that Goku saw, but didn’t inquire. By the time we were on horseback and riding north, we were surrounded by a small squadron of men, those who would be sailing the ships, and overhead Hakuryu flew, our backup, though he wouldn’t fly us over the seas.   
The road we took was cobbled only for a few miles, and by the time it wound away from the town it turned to dirt and dust, carrying sharply downhill and across abandoned countryside and pastureland. Recently-harvested fields had been left fallow and open to weeds, homesteads were boarded up and locked, barns chained shut against thieves. Everything was scenic, picturesque, except for the few telltale signs of anticipated invasion, the spic and span quality of the yards that made them look unlived in, anything valuable removed or hidden away. I saw in many places rich, upturned earth near the base of a tree or a particularly large stone and asked Kougaiji about it, who explained that many people buried their wealth near their homesteads in the countryside.

“I advised against their taking it. It’s more liable to be stolen on the roads and in the camps than by any sort of invader.” He frowned and gave a half shrug, “But it is theirs, and if it gives them comfort to bear it along…”

We saw a number of stone wells closed up, boards drawn up over the openings and layered with rubble to keep the wind from blowing the tops off. Trim gardens were just beginning to creep up over their boundaries, flowers shook the last of the season’s seeds into open yards and fields, promising a rich crop of honeysuckle and what looked like Erythros’ version of Queen Anne’s lace. Again, I asked Kougaiji, and he said he didn’t know the name of that flower, but was certain it wasn’t that.  
“That is not a name we have here, ‘Anne,’” he told me, pronouncing it with heavy inflexion on an H that wasn’t there.  
“My mum always called them snowflake flowers,” Goku said helpfully as he approached on his own mount at a canter. “I didn’t take ya for a plant…enthusiast,” he said finally. 

“A botanist?” I offered, and he nodded vigorously. “I’m not. But my father used to enjoy gardening, and I picked up a lot from him. He had a green thumb.”

“That sounds awful,” Goku’s voice pitched upward in a question, and I snorted.

“It’s an idiom. A saying we have—it means he could make anything grow.”

Kougaiji looked to me curiously—he loved to hear about the habits and customs of my world, I’d noticed, and I wished the rest of my people were a little more like Erythrians, rather than so fiercely xenophobic. 

“Where did your father keep his gardens, at his home?”

“Yeah; the back and front yards of our house, where I grew up, were all landscaped. Nothing as massive as yours,” I raised my eyebrows, thinking Erythros’ palace could compare with the gardens of Versailles very nicely, “but he used the space we had. I don’t know how he managed it all, but when I was really young I remember helping, pulling weeds and that sort of thing.”

Kougaiji smiled, and I think he sensed that it made me less nervous to speak of home, because he kept up the conversation where he might have lapsed into silence. 

“Are our flowers the same as yours?”

“Some of them. Honeysuckle—you have a lot of that here. It’s all over your gardens, the rich, perfumed ones? Most of them are yellow?”

Kougaiji nodded; yes, he knew those. 

“Well I like the tulip,” Goku said. “They’re bright and ya don’t have t’replant them every year, _and_ they don’t stink up the whole room and make it smell like a girl’s soap.”

“They don’t last very long either,” I pointed out, remembering that my father loathed planting them; their lifespan was very short, though they usually did return every spring.

“I like ‘em,” he maintained, glancing at Kougaiji. “With as many as you have in your garden, I guess you can’t really pick a favorite, can you?” 

The king looked thoughtful for a moment. “There is a plant,” he said, “that we have here that men harvest. The palace buys the seeds to put out for special occasions; the flowers are very tall, and the centers bear their fruit. We call them sun-watchers, because throughout the day they move along with the light. They’re very costly because they are difficult to grow—for some reason they won’t take to the soil, and the sparrows get to them often before the farmers.”

“Sunflowers?” I raised my eyebrows. “Sunflowers are valuable?”

“You have this flower also?”

“Yes. Lots of them—you can buy the seeds just about anywhere. We grow them in huge fields; they’re pretty hardy.”

“Fields?” He looked as though he had trouble envisioning this. “I would like to see this, one day.”

“The whole field turns to follow the sun. But keeping the birds at bay isn’t easy. They come in flocks.”

His face was gentle, serene, for a moment, perhaps imagining an undulating blanket of sparrows coming down over the crop. What an ironically perfect emblem for him, a plant that was elegant and useful both, keeping its head always tilted upward at the sky. 

“I wish I could take you.” Goku had allowed his horse to lag a bit, doddling when he sensed the conversation’s intimate turn; I leaned my mount in closer to Kougaiji’s. “There are a lot of things I’d like for you to see.”

“Your ancient cities.”

“And the living ones.”

“And your home, the house-within-a-house.”

“Apartment,” I corrected, “and it’s nothing worth seeing. Nothing like here.”

“It is yours,” Kougaiji said easily. “That is worth seeing.”

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woops I went away there for a while. Alas no new fics--this break was all about research. Shock. But I can post another chapter of this.

The journey passed more quickly than I would have liked, and soon the blue strip of the coast had widened and grown, spinning out like thread until it sucked up the horizon and swallowed the gold and green of the fields. An almost-trireme was beached nearby, half of its crew, the last of the reinforcements, already waiting. It was a little past high noon by my best guess, and Kougaiji said that we would arrive an hour or so before sunset, and that swatch of time would be the most perilous because we would both be vulnerable. To be safe, we would remain away from the shore until the moon came out. 

Beneath my feet, the ship swayed very slightly, and I wondered how much it would rock about once we hit the open sea. Goku was clinging to the edge and peering down, but his knuckles were white with nerves, face pinched. When I’d offered him the rest of my meager lunch he’d refused, a sure sign of trouble, with him. 

“I’ve never seen you not eat.”

“I’m just not hungry I guess. Better not, if we’re gonna be sailin’ soon anyways.” He shrugged, eyeing the bleary distance warily. Kougaiji’s hand came down over his shoulder from behind; he stood a full head taller and looked quite regal there at the prow, the sea breeze buffeting his cloak back just enough, like Napoleon or Lysandros. 

“Once it’s moving, you’ll get used to it very quickly,” he promised. “Best to sit at the center for now, and watch the horizon. It will steady your stomach.”

I took his advice to Goku as well, leaning against the central past and eyeing the shrinking shore of Erythros once we were launched until I had to squint to see it, a smudge in the distance. Walking around was troublesome at first, coordinating my balance with the bucking waves that sucked and kissed the sleek hull. The sailors on board said it was a calm sea, and I hated to think of a rough one, but I never did much sailing in Virginia, and it could probably be worse. I’d seen smaller ships, and rougher waters. 

Kougaiji strode about with ease, but I remember him saying he’d only been to Erythros once before, and asked where he’d gained the expertise, all the while leaning against the railing and affecting nonchalance as my hands clutched at the salt-smoothed wood for balance. Kougaiji stood still, facing me as he spoke. 

“I travel by sea very frequently, sometimes to reach distant coasts in Erythros—it’s faster than by land, and dragons can’t be used for every errand—and sometimes to visit Glaukia.”

“I thought no one lived there?” Actually I had thought very little of the island, conceiving of it vaguely as some mist-shrouded place where the locals believed spirits dwelled, like a sort of nationally-recognized Avalon, rising out of the sea.

“No one _lives_ there,” Kougaiji agreed, and sunlight glinted sharply off of one of his earrings like a wink. “But spirits dwell there, perhaps. We make offerings. And not far from it, just out of sight of the mist, there is a good deal of deep-sea fishing done. When I was very young, there was shore-mining on Melorodon, too. Coal, mostly—we’d made a treaty with the people who dwelled near to the ripest lands.”

“Is that all they produce there?”

“No; there is the stone, the impenetrable rock that makes up the core of the entire continent, abaton. It’s very heavy, and we take little of it, though it’s easy enough to mine, resting just beneath a thin surface of earth.”

“What do they eat there, then?” 

Kougaiji shrugged. “What they can find naturally. The ground won’t yield to farming any more. They say it used to, a very long time ago, back when your ancestor dwelled among us.”

I had never given that much thought—my ancestor, the first Sanzo, appeared to save them. But Kougaiji never said he appeared from another world—only that he came from a small village. That made me very distantly Erythrian, otherworldly. 

“It used to be beautiful here, they say; you have seen by the map that it is a bigger land than my own. It fed tens of thousands before Ukoku took the throne and infected it with his dark magic. Gradually they fled. Or died.” He swallowed, but smiled tautly, his eyes gentle when he looked at me. “And your ancestor saved us.” I almost heard his thoughts then. 'Just as you will now.'

I tightened my hands on the railing once again, not minding this time if he saw it. “What happens if somehow he gets his hands on the sutra? In battle?”

“Nothing. Only Sanzos can wield it. I do not believe it would allow anyone else to touch it in that way.”

I knew it didn’t automatically electrocute any foreign hands on it because Goku had brushed against me accidentally a number of times without suffering for it—so long as he wasn’t wearing any powerful conductors—and last night Kougaji’s hands had scraped along my back repeatedly without enduring any injury. 

“Good to know.” 

The blue waters around us glinted with sunlight, but as we steered what I thought must be West, they darkened and the air became cloudy and grey, promising a storm. We were near to Glaukia, and I had to admit that the atmosphere was more appropriate for our impending battle than the Mediterranean sapphire that surrounded Erythros’ shore.

Sailors were as superstitious there as they were in my own world, and when the misty fog began to come down in layers they trimmed the sails and muttered prayers, letting the strong current tug us along. It was futile to take a direct route where there were few places to shore up and so many counter-winds to attack the ship. All the same, it was evident that they didn’t like the chosen path, especially given their eventual destination. 

I couldn’t tell if it was the knowledge of where we were headed or the genuinely eerie quality the air had taken on, but every hair on my neck stood up as a chilly dampness rose from the water, cloaking the ship in a sticky web. The wind made a hollow, whistling sound as it caught every open rod and pipe, shrieking each time the direction of the ship altered. The formerly merry noises the sea had made along the hull slowed, and the surface surrounding us looked almost like ice, still as a mill pond and devoid of color. We were slowing down, and although nothing in the background changed, I perceived we were beginning to turn, following some underwater path that would take us round the shore, skirting it closely and dipping within view a few times despite the clouds. Then we would unfurl the sails and jettison past, going from grey to black, and into Melorodon.

Kougaiji had taken the port side, leaning at the rail, and I knew that was where the island would eventually appear. He was waiting for it. Most of the sailors and not a few of the soldiers had clustered in groups to speak in low tones, trying to ward off the unsettling atmosphere that domed the land of the spirits. One of them coughed and gestured, glancing away, and Kougaiji tensed and leaned forward. It materialized.

My first thought was that it looked like a massive pile of stones surrounded by dry ice and obscured even at such proximity. The sheer rocky crags that made up its borders were visible when we sailed within a quarter mile of them, but nothing of the shore could be perceived, muffled by too dense a mist. When the sun struck its layers, only a silvery light made its way through to us, a watered down glow that showed the darker air swirling, constantly in motion. There was nothing within it. I was reminded of the Sumerian view of the afterlife, a dark palace of clay under the earth, everything gray and cold and dirty for all eternity. How was this so much different?

Leaning over the port side as well, my elbow a few inches from the king’s, I watched his eyes strain, chasing the lines of the shore hopefully. He was looking for him. I saw him finger the pendant at his neck and wanted to swat his hand away, remind him that his grief was misplaced. There were people who cared for him still, and who would not betray him.  
“It is where we believe the ghosts go to live,” he said, perhaps forgetting that he had told me this before, or only beginning conversation.

“I don’t know that I believe in ghosts.”

This made him turn, a confused expression on his face. “What do you mean, you don’t believe in ghosts? What’s to believe?” He looked at me as though I’d denied global warming.

“I just don’t know that they exist. That there’s really anything after you die.” I used to believe in them; in fact once, as a child, I’d been convinced of having seen one, but children were more susceptible to fantasy. _Like dragons?_

After my father’s disappearance, everyone’s assurance that he was dead, but “at peace,” I’d been so certain I would hear from him, see something. If ghosts did exist, I would have seen my father’s. _He would have come for me._

“I see.” Kougaiji said softly, his eyes gentling, as if he understood why. “Don’t you think that’s a rather dreary view of the afterlife?”

“If you believe in one.”

“Then don’t you think that’s a rather dreary view of life as a whole, knowing that everyone you love will disappear, and so will you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t give it as much thought as most people. It’s easy not to, when you’re young. Or was.” I frowned. Naturally I’d been paying it more attention in the past few weeks, though still skirting the heart of the issue. I wasn’t a praying man.

The sliding lines of grey and white that made up Glaukia’s borders were passing on by, and soon they were out of view altogether and we were delivered back into the haze that encompassed it, headed toward the light. I asked, “Were you watching for him?”

Kougaiji tensed a little, then relented. “Yes.”

“I never asked you how he died. Where I come from, when a soldier dies, it’s considerate, sometimes, but here…”

“It is not an affront,” Kougaiji assured me. “And he died well—there were five of them, all at once.” Again he was looking on after the island. I wondered if he could still see it. “He was defending his brother.”

Gojyo. I remembered the redhead, Hakkai’s lover, and wondered if the dragon-keeper knew. 

“Is he--”

“Gojyo is alive. I sent Hakkai south, with the others. He is to take word to Yaone, and my sister.” He frowned hard, looking guilty. “With departure at hand--”

“You couldn’t have gone,” I reassured him. “And no one would expect it of you,” I added vehemently. “Good God, hadn’t you done enough, blessing that union? No one would ask you to cast off mourning to give comfort to your—to his--”

His hand slid gently about my wrist, fingers weaving through the backs of mine, though at our proximity, I doubt his furtive movements could be seen through the smog. “In any other circumstances, I would have gone myself. It is a king’s duty; he was a Companion.”

I shook my head a little, and felt him smiling at me with his eyes, though his mouth was a solemn line. 

“You’re up in arms for my sake,” he said, and there was gratitude there. 

“No one should be expected to endure that, king or no.” He looked as though he disagreed, and I set my jaw, leaning back against the railing. In my aggravation, I’d forgotten to feel nauseous. The ship was picking up speed again. “It’s just damned unfair.”

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?”

 

\---

 

The sun was farther across the sky when Melorodon came into view, but we let down anchor a few miles from the shore to be safe, keeping it a black streak of paint in the distance, only the occasional rocky peak marring the view of the sky. From this angle, it didn’t appear as intimidating as I’d imagined, though it did seem lifeless enough, with no ships or ports or great forests visible, everything flat and dark even in broad daylight. Clouds were gathered overhead, not quite as black as they had seemed from a distance, but partially translucent, like factory smog all pumping out of one great mountain, the volcano, atop which sat the many-spired castle. 

Anchored and nearer to shore, the vessel settled in dark waters and men lay out blankets on which to sit or doze, though no one really did much of either. At some point, a dragon swooped down to hover, smaller than Hakuryu by far, either a young one or a different breed. It had a haversack clung about its thick neck and buckled in palladium, glistening and flecked with dirt or smoke from the flight. A soldier hollered, and the king appeared.

Kougaiji took the sealed document from a pouch about the messenger dragon’s neck and pursed his lips in a little frown; whatever the news was, I guessed it was anticipated, but loathed.

“Suelep’s been injured. They don’t think he’ll make it,” he summarized, still reading, and I said something to the effect of “I’m sorry.” He nodded, accepting it, and then the color drained from his face, bleeding out rapidly as if from a wound. I heard the paper rattle in his hands before he clutched it, hard. 

“How many?” I asked, remembering that it had taken five of Ukoku’s ravenous demons to defeat Dokugakuji.

“One,” he said, and I frowned. Hadn’t Suelep been one of Kougaiji’s strongest and most experienced soldiers? He was one of the three commanders in charge of the defense.

“One?” I pressed for details, watching his face turn up to the distant black shores, a sound working to come out of his mouth.

“My father.” 

 

\----

 

I told Samuel to sleep now, while he could in the hours before dusk, and that nothing had changed, and our plan would proceed as expected. Of course that wasn’t true, and he knew it at once, asking how it was possible that my father could be leading the battle and allowing Ukoku to raise armies if his life energy was being put toward removing the last of the demon’s seals.

“I don’t know,” I said to him in all honesty. “I don’t know how Ukoku plans to escape if he’s using my father to raise his armies now—Gyumaoh is very powerful, but even he does not have the strength to do both of these things.”

We had been over this, and Samuel made a sound of frustration, “Then why _do_ it? And if your father’s leading armies, working with him, does that mean he’s already out?”

“If he were already out,” I thought aloud, “we would all be dead.”

“Why? How do we know he’s not toying with us? Waiting for something—waiting for you,” Samuel suggested. “Maybe he wants to lure you in with your father after all, use you to free him after killing your father.”

“How would he kill my father if he is still imprisoned?” I asked, and Samuel frowned, thinking it over. There was something not quite right about the scenario, as though I could feel a chink in the plan we’d assumed Ukoku to have, but I wasn’t sure where it was.

“At least we know he isn’t going to be freed anytime soon. Right?”

“That depends on how many wards my father managed to peel off before raising the army.”

“What do you mean, ‘how many’—I’m starting to picture a B-movie dungeon scene here, how is his prison set up?”

I didn’t understand his reference, but let it slide without question. “I have never been, but my father told me of it once. It is below the castle, in the bowels of the volcano. There is a great gate, a portcullis that never opens, and it arches upward into the natural rock. It’s completely covered in charms against it, paper wards like your sutra. Only a Sanzo can put them on—they’re holy. It takes a good deal of energy to remove even one, and there must be hundreds. My father could spend weeks on them and make only moderate progress.”

“And you want me to put them all back?”

“To strengthen them. They run off of energy, like anything else. And yes, those he has removed must be returned. Your magic will tell you what to do.”

“You’ve gotta believe me when I tell you I have no idea,” Samuel said quietly. “I don’t even know how to work the little jolts of energy I’ve been sending through you guys, only that they seem to come out when I’m near a strong conductor, and never when I expect it.”

“You’ve been atop the most massive conductor available all day and haven’t killed anyone,” I pointed out to him, gesturing to the sea around us, and he frowned. Why did he have so little faith in himself? Everyone else did. 

“There’s a good deal of wood and air between us. I wouldn’t like to try it.”

“I’ll be careful not to push you over then,” I said with a lift of my eyebrows, and he scowled, hating his confusion. I had learned to live with mine—the mystery of my father’s defection. In the end it would be as uncomplicated as any battle, all the nuances erased by simple fight or flight. Anyone who came at me, got in my way, would be annihilated. 

I sent back a message to Xaja, hastily scrawled, and moved to stamp it with the seal before remembering that Lirin had it now. Instead I dipped Dokugakuji’s pendant in the wax and pressed the sparrow down onto the folds, melting it shut. I asked him when my father had appeared, and to send another message of his whereabouts—was he leading the army, or commanding from a distance?—at dusk. I told him we were anchored and would come with the moon, the Sanzo to seek out Ukoku, and I to lead the armies. There would be one final ship, I decided at the last moment, to sail back with the wounded, if any could be carried to the landing site. I was thinking of Gojyo, Doku’s efforts to save him, and the panic barely hidden in Hakkai’s eyes when I’d told him to seek out Lirin and deliver my message. 

While we awaited dusk, the crew stirred and shifted uneasily, speaking lowly amongst themselves and kissing or tapping good luck charms and amulets. I found Samuel at the prow, leaning over the V of the railing and watching the water arch and fall gently below as the ship bobbed in the sea. I touched his shoulder and must have startled him, but then he turned me and looked grateful. I knew what it was like to be alone with your own thoughts, and often it was better to share them. I stood close, both of us sharing that narrow space, and felt him brush against me as though he were only adjusting his footing. We were removed from the others, but not private, so I let our shoulders touch and little else.

“I think I must be the only one on board without an amulet,” he said, looking down even at mine, which was slightly red from the sealing wax.

“You have the most powerful one of any of us, I should think.” My fingers glanced across the gilded edge of the scroll, and he shrugged.

“Let’s hope it works.”

“It will work, Samuel.”

There was a pause, a breath, and for a moment I thought he would start all over again, rehashing the same issues, asking the same questions about Ukoku’s intentions, my father’s. But he didn’t, saying instead, “Why did you choose to wear white?”

What a strange question. “Does it displease you?”

“What? No. Where I come from though, we fly white flags only in surrender.” He frowned thoughtfully, “Though I guess, going back far enough, to the French, it was an emblem of royalty. Is that why you wear it?”

I shook my head, fingering the glossy fabric of my clothing. Such importance they attach to color! “I chose it because we will be fighting at night, and this way my men will see me, and know where I am at all times.”

“Logical,” he agreed, leaning forward in a stance that matched mine. 

“Yes, well. One ought to be.”

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and closed it again. I sensed he was working his way up to something, and I provided the springboard by asking a personal question of my own, that he might not feel it undue him to request an answer in turn. 

“If you might see your father again, what would you tell him?”

He furrowed his brow at me, shaking his head. “I don’t know. A lot of things. I’d say I’m sorry, for not being able to carry out his work, or for not understanding it. I’m sorry for not being able to find him, or for giving up too soon. I’d ask him why the hell he never visited me, if he can, and if he’s happy, wherever he is, and will I see him again.”

“If it counts for anything, I think you carried out his work very well,” I murmured. “You made it here, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, gaze askance, but turned to face me when our shoulders pushed together again. 

“And you,” he said. “If you got to see him again, Dokugakuji. Would you tell him?”

“Tell him?”

“That you still love him. I can’t imagine he didn’t know it, but apparently he didn’t, so would you tell him?”

“No,” I said in a breath. “Whom would that serve, but myself?”

“Sometimes you need to serve yourself.”

“Not that way.” I couldn’t imagine bringing that pain to him; he would suffer for it, knowing that I still loved him that way. At some point, the notion must have fallen away from him. He knew it when he first refused me, but perhaps he assumed whatever I’d felt had smoothed away with the years into simple friendship, polished to simplicity after so many evenings of chaste camaraderie. It was easier to let him think that; it saved my pride and his conscience, and I cared very much to see him happy. To think he was dead, and I had been so plagued with worry about whom his longest letters would come to, who he would choose to remember most dearly. I would give up all contact, every sight of him, to have him live in some remote part of Erythros with Yaone, a farmer or a carpenter, a man of simple, happy means whose life was never endangered. If it meant that he were not dead.

“You’re a very kind man.”

“I do not feel kind.” 

He turned then and leaned in toward me, causing me to step back but not quickly enough. We were still in full view, if anyone happened to be watching, but he kissed me just the same, mouth pressing warmly over mine, one hand coming to rest on my arm that I might not dodge again. 

“You’re the most selfless man I know,” he said in rebuttal to my protest, and I shook my head.

“Samuel, I am come to kill my own father.”

“Against your will and for the sake of your people. You’re like some tragic hero come to life, Orestes, maybe, although your father and the man who supplanted and destroyed him are one and the same.”

“Orestes,” I repeated the foreign name carefully; it was beautiful, but sounded distinctively different from “Samuel.” Another ancient name, perhaps. “And how did his story end?”

“Orestes was acquitted. By the gods themselves, for killing his step-father and blood-father’s usurper.”

I _hmm_ ed thoughtfully. “Do you still feel yourself unguarded, Samuel?”

“What?”

“Without an amulet,” I reminded him of his words a moment ago.

“Admittedly, maybe a bit.” He shrugged. “I’m not superstitious, though.”

“Of course not,” I agreed pleasantly, my anticipation rising as I saw the light of the day bleeding out into the distant seas, its fiery light becoming murky and vague as dusk approached, shedding her hues of grey and blue over everything. Slipping a hand behind my hair, I felt for the worn gold clasp of the pendant, and when its familiar weight left my chest I felt naked, as though I’d removed a breastplate or greaves. The smooth-shaped sparrow I pressed into his palm, forcing his fingers closed over it when he hesitated. 

“Your sparrow goddess, Aphrodite,” I was surprised I remembered the name, long and tripping-off-the-tongue elegant, “protects the ones you love, doesn’t she?”

Samuel nodded. “She does.”

“Then I am not the one who ought to be wearing it, now.” I watched him slip it on, letting the metal slide down the front of his robes and against the slim line of his chest. I remembered the taste of his skin, like sandalwood and clover, and wanted to survive the night then more dearly than I had grasped at life in a long time. 

“Thank you,” He said quietly, knowing that anything more would be superfluous and not enough at the same time. Circumstance had drawn us together in a short number of weeks in a way that a decade of companionship never could. Xaja’s messenger dragon flew overhead, casting her writing shadow onto the planks of the ship, and we stepped apart.

_Lord; your father leads the armies, and seems weakened not at all. We have fallen back, and need your aid urgently_.

With a glance to the darkening sky, I gave the call to raise anchor and push forward, and soon the smoggy miasma engulfed us, smelling of bitumen and sulfur and distantly, blood. The entire ship gave a sharp jolt as we came ashore, like a shudder running from prow to rear. Rope ladders were unfurled and cast down, and I was the first to dismount, gliding down and feeling the icy shock of the hard land beneath my boots; only a thin, weedy turf covered the abaton. When Samuel landed, I saw his fingertips spark, and the soldiers following him stepped away cautiously, bowing a little and wishing him a host of blessings that passed through him like air. I looked around at the lifeless terrain and recalled once describing it to him as a nightmare. I thought now it was worse, and remembered the conversation we had once had about a religion among his people with only three gods, all one and yet unique, and the place they sent wicked men after death. This was like that, like Hell. 

 

\----

 

Kougaiji ordered the sailors to remain onboard, for which they seemed endlessly grateful, and the small contingent of soldiers we took with us. It was their duty to remain near to the shore and prepare stretchers for the wounded, and supplies. The king took with him only his daggers, a short sword, and the box tied up in white that I had seen bobbing against his horse’s flank back on Erythros. I asked him what it held, and he opened the lid to let me peer in at the scooped out malachite bowl—no, helmet—that I had found at my father’s dig site. His ancestor Seu-Ssydo’s. 

We mounted the messenger dragon, there being hardly enough room for two riders on her narrow back, and she flew us across the plains below toward the troops, keeping near to the coast that we might remain out of firing range of the enemy soldiers. As we did glide over them, keeping just below the low-hanging clouds of ash, I think my arms tightened about Kougaiji’s waist, wanting badly to look away. There were the remnants of several battlefields below where the body of fighting men had moved sluggishly backward like a wounded beast, leaving in its wake a bloodied trail of broken bodies and crumbled stone. The earth seemed ridged up around it, ready to engulf the dead, and from my vantage point it was easy to trace the entire path of their retreat. It seemed cruel to keep the army stationed in such an inhospitable locale, waging war in such inclement conditions. But all of Melorodon looked like this, and someone had to hold them off. 

When we neared the fighting, I heard it even above the hissing wind of our height: clanging metal and shrieking—that was the loudest. Ukoku’s army was monstrous; they were black-skinned and dirty-faced, glistening because they were made of dark stone and mud. Their skulls were massive, and long, scythed ears curved over the naked skin there; none of them grew hair, and the flesh that covered their heads reminded me of wax paper, dangerously thin and stretched so taut that it obscured what would have been almost humanoid features.

They moved with great speed, and if I squinted, I thought I saw men in muddied scarlet hacking at them, beheading and severing limbs in an attempt to slow the flood down. My gaze adjusted further as if with a lens, and I realized that many of the bushes and the greater part of the low-lying shrubbery were not actually foliage at all, but only more of the stone beasts being born of the earth, again and again, and flinging themselves forward at our tiring army. 

Every muscle in Kougaiji’s back grew hard and tense at the sight, and the dragon must have too, because her wings drew together and we dipped, gliding at a faster rate through the air and toward the camp miles behind the clashing armies. I could only imagine what it sounded like among them, like being trapped on a train track, blinded by the oncoming smoke and deafened by the reverberating roar of iron on iron. Beyond them, and to the north, I could make out the outline of the castle through the black fog. I thought I saw a window-shaped opening or two aglow, as if it were waiting, and looked up at the sky in search of the moon. It would rise in under an hour, and Kougaiji would keep me close until then, when he would loose me to the demon king. 

The baggage train was strung out behind the camp in a loose semi-circle, ready to retreat at the drop of a hat, most of its animals already hitched to the wagons. Men were being roused from a brief five-hour sleep and sent out to fight again, but the propped up slings and stretchers that lounged like people about the perimeters of the tents suggested there were no surplus forces to bring in the wounded. Maybe there were no wounded now, only the dead. I wondered fleetingly what had become of Dokugakuji’s body—was it their custom to build a pyre when away from home, or did battle conditions not permit any sort of burial rite? I didn’t ask, and no one offered up any information; they bowed and nodded to me, resting heavy hope on my shoulders with a look, and each one who saw me glanced also at the sky, searching for the moon. It seemed everyone knew the prophecy. 

When I followed Kougaiji across, I heard my feet almost click against the ground; here the brown-green growth was very thin and often gave way entirely to stone and hard-packed earth of a similar color. Since we had left the ship, I’d felt…something. My body hummed with electricity, a muted thrum of energy that wasn’t painful, but rather reassuring. It was like the pulse I’d felt before Goku touched the plate I’d been holding, or when Kougaiji’s hand brushed the opposite end of the sterling letter opener. I tried once or twice scraping my fingers alongside discarded bits of armor or weaponry to watch them hiss and smoke at the contact. If my hands hummed from it, my feet positively screeched with the vibration. The rock of the ground must be a strong conductor, the exact opposite of normal earth. I tried tapping it a few more times as we strode through camp, seeing little sparks fly up from beneath my boots as I did, and feeling that energy rumble and expand inside, chasing the length of my limbs and circling restlessly. Would this be how it felt when I fought? 

“Where is Gyumaoh?” I heard Kougaiji asking a very tired looking man, his dark hair and cloak splattered in mud and dirt and drying blood, face weathered and making him look falsely aged. By his size alone I knew him as Xaja. 

“Returned to the castle, Sire,” he said gruffly, flicking a glance at the distantly-visible fortress. I remembered Hakkai’s earlier letter, and how they had originally been encamped within sprinting distance of it; Recuet had even scaled the walls. How many men had had to die to slow the pace of their withdrawal and buy us time? 

“We don’t know why, Kougaiji,” he said gently, a gnarled hand coming down over Kougaiji’s brown arm, squeezing gently but avoiding the pristine white of his clothes, which seemed to shun the black earth of Melorodon as effortlessly as my robes did. “I saw him in battle only a moment—it was why we had to curtail the brunt of our forces. One stroke of his hand…” He gestured, vaguely, but Kougaiji knew, likely having seen his father fight before. 

“Did he know you?” He breathed, hopeful, and when Xaja nodded, his face hardened, unbelieving or maybe just agonized.  
“He did, Lord,” Xaja murmured, “I don’t know what that monster’s done to him—he’s not himself, to have swept them aside like that, destroying my entire right flank…there is nothing for it, Sire.”

Kougaiji nodded tensely. “Has Hakuryu arrived yet, then?”

I was surprised Xaja knew him by name, but perhaps because of their relative scarcity, all of the dragons were ranked among the generals, all familiar. “He has; he’ll be waiting for you on the edge of the bogs, Lord.” This time he was addressing me, inclining his head in a half-bow, and I nodded and gave my thanks. 

“I will lead you against my father,” Kougaiji rasped, watching over Xaja’s shoulder as ragged troops marched out, his throat constricting. “Buy us time, until.” Here he looked at me, and then past, walking back to where our dragon, the fair green one who was now preening, had come to land. From her side he unstrapped the box again and snapped the clasp. White gauzy fabric sprung out like a cloud. From it, he drew out the helmet, and although it was little more than the skull cap and broken chin guard that remained, he donned it, pressing it down firmly atop his hair, and I watched it gleam, centuries of calcification receding in the blink of an eye, replaced by burnished copper that glinted dangerously with crimson in the dusky light. The broken plates of the side reconstructed themselves, metal materializing out of thin air when he put his elegant hands upon it. I saw the original etchings make themselves clear and deep in the crown, stylized imprints of men at war. At the top, a horsehair plume dyed scarlet burst forth in a spray of light, hanging down in feathered sequence like a decorated Corinthian helmet but without the nose-guard. Was the magic his, or the headdress’? Before I could ask, Kougaiji looked up at the sky; my gaze was distracted by the bob of the heavy feathers, and he pursed his lips in a tight frown and took my arm, guiding me along. He said to Xaja, “Ready the men; all of them. Have a party of no more than ten begin to transport the most severely wounded. There is a ship, and men to aid. Send them on their way.”

“Yes, Lord.”

To me, he said only, “Come.”

We marched quickly past the baggage trains and into the brittle darkness of the countryside. Kougaiji warned me of bogs and all the telltale signs of their nearness. I saw one or two, nothing like the cranberry fields I’d once looked over in Massachusetts. These were dark, inky sinkholes covered loosely in peat moss. Occasionally they would bubble like tar and make sick squelching sounds that made me wonder if they were digesting the last hapless wanderer. If anyone were out here, we would make sure targets ourselves, both clad in shimmering white and polished gold and bronze, a king and his priest.

Hakuryu chirped at us and emerged from the shadows, just as luminous in the strange almost-night light, and he unfurled his massive wings, lowering his head so that his pinkish eyes set upon mine. 

“He knows where to take you,” Kougaiji said, shoulders tensing up straight as though someone had pressed a hand to the small of his back. In the helmet, his gaze was more formidable than before, and I imagined him in full battle regalia. With his powers, would he even need it? 

“Alright. No magic words, then?” I said with false lightheartedness, though the jest fell flat and sour off of my tongue, and he saw my nerves as though they were bared to the air. It stung as much.

“No magic words,” he murmured back, the hand on my arm that had led me still very present, squeezing gently for comfort. He cast a glance up at the sky and then, dipping his head, drew the helmet off quickly. I saw it become an artifact once again, crumbling and delicate in his hold, and he held it aside when he leaned in to kiss me. It was fierce this time, as rough as I’d ever seen him, and then both arms slid about me, drawing me to him and tasting the wine from our dinner on my mouth. It didn’t feel like a goodbye kiss. It was too demanding, unrelenting, and if there was sorrow in it, it was buried beneath insistence and need. I curled my fingers through his hair and felt the chilly press of the pendant on my naked skin between us when his chest came flush with mine. Holding me close to him even after we broke, his breath came hot on my cheek. 

“Don’t. Die.” His eyes were like coals, all pupil with only a ripple of red; a hand swiped my cheek briskly and then my shoulder; it was more intimate than he had been with anyone in some time, and he didn’t know how to do it. I wasn’t exactly an expert at farewells myself. 

“Same goes for you, then, Sparrow King,” I said, tapping a finger against his chest. There was a buzz of electricity between us because of the nearness of my hand to the brooch that held his cloak shut, and it made him smile, a nervous crack in a stoic façade, and he kissed my knuckles smoothly, stepping away. 

“I will see to it, Samuel,” he promised, watching me slide up onto Hakuryu’s back as the dragon took off, flinging himself skyward with great ease and only one light rider. There was a flash of light below us as Kougaiji donned his helmet once again, the metal regenerating as his magic breathed life into it. He disappeared into the shadows, and I into the light. We careened across the open fields, and Hakuryu’s wings propelled us higher, tail swishing occasionally to cut the air like a keen blade behind us. 

“You sure you know where you’re going?” 

He chirped again, lower in his throat this time, and dove forward. Kougaiji’s men were in the distance now, and the dark castle was approaching swiftly. It clung as if by clawed feet to the top and side of the massive volcano; I could see where the mountain had erupted recently and was still churning out scarlet-lined lava in tarry clods that slid, clumping messily, down all the sides like candle wax. I could smell it very strongly, the burning, acrid odor of corruption and something faintly ferric that I thought must bleed from the stones. 

Indeed the fortress was almost part of its base, melting perfectly into the scenery and glistening wetly despite a grey layer of ash. The base was wide and firm, but it became elegant and almost delicate as its lines tapered off skyward, thinning out but continuing to a dizzying height. It was all spires on top, many of them too narrow for even a staircase, but thrusting upward into the sky like defensive pikes or stakes. I thought Vlad Tepes himself would not be displeased by such a bastion; it was like something out of a fairy tale and fit for a villain, though what made Ukoku one was too gruesome for any children’s story. 

As Hakuryu sailed about it, it became apparent that none of the narrow slits of windows were lit from within, and the only glow came from the slop of lava gurgling forth. Despite its presence, the air was still cold and damp, especially with the wind of movement upon us, and our altitude dropped at a gradual rate. The entry was at the base, but Hakuryu alighted atop a rounded rook, letting me sit for a moment and watch the fight from a distance. 

At first I thought we were too far away to see anything; the orcs blooming from the earth matched its color, and the men only showed up where light reflected from their armor, though even that was nothing more than a flicker from here. And then, igniting like a comet, I saw a streak of crimson fly through the field, sweeping waves of dark soldiers back like a great open palm. Then I was able to recognize the difference between the orcs and the turf, finally seeing a swath of bare ground before me. 

“ _That’s_ Kougaiji?” I had never truly seen his magic at work. Hakuryu hummed a sound of agreement and shifted on his elegant feet.

Soldiers roared forward to fill the gap, their sound muted at this distance and mostly swallowed by the ugly gurgles from the volcano behind us. Kougaiji was ubiquitous in the field, dashing all over the place in bursts of light and flame, igniting peat moss and bogs that went up like oil, incinerating the enemy in staggering numbers, and all in mere minutes. When they advanced, walls of fire rose up, guarding men, and then cascaded forward like tsunami, crashing down and then licking skyward again with long tongues, fed by fresh tinder. 

_If that’s your power, what must Gyumaoh’s be?_

I watched him destroy legions in the span of minutes, and just as the sky grew to pitch around us, the last of the sun light having been stamped out by the foot of the horizon, the clouds shifted and the moon rose, full and low-hanging at our new latitude. I touched Hakuryu’s glossy scales with a little nod, and he took off, swinging down to the scorched earth to let me off at the broken gates. 

“Thank you.” Nervous to leave the last of my company, I touched his face lightly in a pat, and he head-butted me the way affectionate horses do, using his large tail to smash open the door with a snick of sound from those wide jaws. 

“Good luck to you too, then,” I said with a lift of my brows, touching the place where the pendant sat at my throat and ducking into the narrow entryway as Hakuryu took to the sky, and I went down under the earth. 

 

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter oh my.

The center of battle is like walking through a storm. The clash of arms and movement about you is not unlike the brute force of a tornado’s wind laced with thunder and sharp, painful sparks of lightning. I broke their ranks easily enough; they were not my true opponent, but pawns sent to weaken me and stave off my men. To seek blood.

A flick of my hand send them flying back, and wave after wave of flame, red and then white in a sudden spike of temperature, incinerated every orc within a half-mile arc of my body. I ordered the men to advance, leading it myself, and let them follow the glowing plumes of Seu-Ssydo’s helmet, which reflected sputtering fires along the way in its polished copper.

I crashed against more of them, using my sword once or twice for the pleasure of decapitating the beasts. I watched their cruel jaws snap and their long claws slash out, and then, pushing ahead of my own armies, I raked the ground with heat and turned them to ash, baring more land for us to fill, to advance. I would have them as near to the castle as possible, though I knew the risk to myself. If Ukoku had lured my father, he might lure me, too. 

Time passes very differently in the midst of a fight; for one stricken with terror, an hour might easily become a day. But for me, rife with hatred and the desire to see Dokugakuji’s killers torn asunder again and again, time hardly seemed to pass at all. The moon could crawl across the sky, and I would not notice it. I thrived on it, the swift movement from one side of the wide field to the other, encouraging my men and shouting some kind of death paean at the enemy. They were beasts only, and not cowed by anything, though they had a sense of self-preservation and learned quickly to draw back when they saw me brace myself against the earth. There was no distance they could run to escape it.

I plowed through them almost before they could crumble back to dust, feeling the char of their bodies cling to my cloak and smear it with chalky viscera. The heat the burning stone gave off left welts on my arms that faded easily because the fire was my own, and my body could handle it. The ground, slick and rough, tore at my shoes and eventually grew hot to the touch from being wiped so frequently with flame. At this time I would pause, letting the rest catch up, and run into the fray with my sword blade bared, tearing out throats the way I used to watch Lirin pluck out stitches. The thought of her being left alone fueled my anger and made a flying burst of fire that much stronger as I sent it into the sky. It came down in a wide arc, like a net, slamming through a score of bodies all at once in a dozen different locations like oil-coated grapeshot. 

From a dragon’s view, it would have looked as though the sky were raining meteors because each explosion of flame left a deep crater in its wake, lined with the imprints of bodies. The resounding detonation that rocketed through the ground and rumbled even in the distance was satisfying in a sickening sort of way; I did it again several times, hitting front and back ranks with no pattern, making it impossible for them to know where to run. Did orcs panic, I wondered, and fanned the closest line with flames, watching their illuminated faces for any sign of it. Yes, I decided finally, they did feel fear. 

Waiting on Xaja’s approach, I slid a dagger through the stomach of one and tore it aside, meeting its bellows with one of my own. They began to swarm, taking heart, but wrongly, and I led them back a few steps, drawing them out of formation and thinning their center. When they became too much for even my speed to manage single-handedly, I crossed my arms protectively about my face and felt the air around me explode into fire, forming a scathing dome about myself and sending them flying back flayed and warped with heat like flies hitting the sides of a lantern. 

They might have been doppelgangers born of earth, but they screamed, too, and I snarled in the face of it. Each one looked so much the same to me, and each one might have been that one, the one who dealt Dokugakuji the death bow. Thus I treated each the same, slaking my vengeance and tearing through lines as though they were no more than dummies set up on a training field. 

Alternating between decimating armies and taking the beasts out by twos and threes gave my men time to catch up and fill the void the crumpled forms of our enemy had left. I was gradually turning us toward the mountain and castle, keeping them at a measured march and trying to leave very little fighting in their hands. That would come again soon enough, when Gyumaoh heard the disturbance. My abilities were formidable and fearsome against orcs, but my father would measure my length against the hard ground easily, and then bury me in it. I didn’t think of it, but focused instead on the endless supply of energy brimming at my fingertips and Ukoku’s equally endless line of soldiers. 

The rush of it was deafening, smothering, and intoxicating; I fed off of it, and kept myself away from my men, remaining stades ahead, warming the earth for their arrival. We were still miles from the castle, but it was clearer in my vision already, and I ached to bring smoke to it too, to tear down those impenetrable walls and bury Ukoku in the rubble. He had had his share of blood and more than his share of lifetimes, and now it was my turn. 

 

\-----

 

The inside of the castle was pitch black, and I couldn’t see a thing once I began to descend the stairwell, leaving the dim silvery light of the open doorway behind. I didn’t have Kougaiji’s power or a lighter, but stuck my hand out stupidly out of habit in search of a switch. My fingertips sparked in the darkness a few times because the walls were the same stone as the earth and highly conductive. Groping for some sort of railing, I hit upon a web-lined wall sconce, tipping the glass of it by accident and hearing it shatter. I winced at the resounding echo. There was a candle in it, and a long ropey wick. 

Scratching the wall again to make my hands spark, I harnessed the thrum and pushed it onto, into, the wick. It snarled angrily and fizzled, blackening in an instant, and then the entire sconce that was mounted to the wall vibrated angrily and shot off into the opposite one, crashing down a few steps before lying still. So much for a surprise attack. But, the moment the electrocuted lamp had lit up the narrow space allowed me to view a long, winding stairwell of black stone lined every fifth step or so with similar apparatuses. 

Making my way down carefully, clutching at the wall and letting my hands produce bolts of electric light, I flailed in the dark until I came across the next one, fumbling with the webs and trying not to think of what creatures might have spun them. It took me three more tries to temper the discharge of my power enough that I didn’t completely destroy the sconce, but then I had a lit candle and plucked it out, carrying it down and using it to illumine the others along the way. Soon the space was bright enough to see, but it was unending, a continuous spiral, and the only change I noticed was the temperature, which was gradually rising as I descended. It was, after all, the heart of a volcano. 

It made queer noises like a volcano too, hissing and rumbling and causing the stairs to shake in a way that terrified me beyond sound. The entire edifice, I thought, might collapse around me, and even the sutra couldn’t save me there. In fact, I was fairly certain that that much abaton layered over me would wind up sending more kilowatts through my system than the initial shock that had transported me into Kougaiji’s garden. 

The thought of that, the electricity stemming from my limbs and becoming an increasingly persistent hum in my body as I lingered on Melorodon, made me wonder how much control I would have over it. I had just pushed it out into the wick, after all, the way Kougaiji liked to light lamps and battlefields. Was it all an issue of conductivity, or was most of it the tempering of my ability and training? Everything had been incidental before then, none of it asked for or specifically refused. I tried again, snapping my fingers and pushing them into the stone, and felt the pulse near the surface. Pushing it out, I watched a crackle of energy run straight up the wall and into the sconces, shattering them all the way back up to the entrance in an echoing symphony of screeching glass. 

It startled me, that sound of my own making, and I took the next few steps too quickly and almost ran right into the solid oak of a bronze-wrapped door. Something crumpled beneath my feet, and I saw piles of shredded paper, all lined in a thick ink and rich calligraphy, bleeding out residual energy that made even my leather-soled shoes crackle, blending not unpleasantly with the static there. They were the wards; Kougaiji had said wards were placed up all over the building, and his father must have begun to tear them down. 

Pushing open the door, I squinted against a new darkness, trying to scan the room by the meager, distant light of torch flame, searching out any hidden pairs of eyes. 

The large, vaulted ceilings seem to soak up the flickering flames, materializing out of shadow and looming directly overhead. Upside-down spires dripped like stalactites with twists at the tips that reminded me of ornate finials. For a long time I thought they were made of wood until, reaching up to touch one, I found it relatively cool and very smooth, more of the same abaton. My fingers made it spark, and I withdrew them this time, listening to the echo of my footsteps as I passed into the center of the room, the space large enough side to side, but absolutely gaping overhead. It was unfurnished save for a few chairs, dilapidated and hung with webbing and the same layer of ash that cloaked everything else. 

There was a grand set of doors at the opposite end, and either side, upon further inspection, boasted ornate artwork along the walls, never-ending frescoes of an Eden like scene in fair pastels that couldn’t have been more out of place. In fact its very presence was unnerving, and looking at a pair of maidens clutching a very large basket of fruit littered in flowers, I felt my stomach turn. It was just the very… _wrongness_ of it in the palace of a man who bathed in the blood of the slain and fed from their energy. What had this been once, a ballroom, a throne room? It was hard to imagine a man like that might dance, hold court, or even conversation. That the palace had ever been more than a tomb for the living was hard to wrap my head around. Had light ever come through here—had there ever been windows in these rooms, skylights?

Now it was too dark to perceive even whether or not the floors were scuffed, and neither of the chairs looked like thrones or much of anything, really. Perhaps his council used to meet here, before he did away with them or slew them. Maybe this was where he did it. 

I picked up my steps and avoided looking up at the dripping wrong-side down spirals, headed to the only other doors in the space. I found them, too, littered with torn paper talismans. Were these really supposed to be enough to keep Ukoku at bay? I could feel that same ancient, broken energy radiating off of the remnants when my feet brushed them, but it was nothing even like Kougaiji’s, never mind what was supposed to reside in a Sanzo. I tried to picture my father coming through here, and couldn’t. But he must have run his hands across them, poured his energy into their brittle forms before Gyumaoh had torn them down. How was I to pick them all up again?

I imagined myself gathering each remnant like broken sherds from the earth, pasting them slowly back together and sticking them one by one over all the surfaces of the room. It was a Sisyphean task for a year, never mind a night. For a fleeting moment, I was certain that he had found the wrong man and my very presence was a fluke, a cruel joke of the universe. In a minute the doors were going to burst open and the creature would consume me, and then everyone else. But I thought of Kougaiji, what he had suffered, and how much of himself he had given to protect his people all of his life. I needed badly to match that ante—what had I ever done to protect anyone? Even my father…

Shoving open the doors, not wanting to creep to my death, at least, I moved forward into the room in quick strides, surprised by the light there, and the heat. I had gone quite far below ground—the stairwell had taken a good deal of time, and ever since then the floors had been sloping just slightly, guiding me further under. In the silence, I could hear the sounds of the volcano even more clearly, angry and very active with Ukoku’s rising. 

My first thought upon seeing it was of a Hollywood set meant to imitate hell, too perfect to be realistic, lacking only the cruel torture implements, which I was sure he kept stowed away in a closet somewhere along with a blood vat. The walls were the same stone, like the floors, but in here they positively glowed, fed by the light of myriad fires from open grates made of kindling and spare urns, some overturned and guttering out on the floor. Feet had passed through some of the ashes very recently. 

I saw the soaring portcullis Kougaiji had spoken of, arching upward into the ceiling at a dizzying angle, all of its harsh iron hinges cloudy with ash and the grease of the fire and whatever had been burned over it. Talismans—thousands of them—fluttered against the breeze the makeshift hearths produced, their white edges waving out like banners. They looked inconsequential—harmless. None of them emanated even a trace of the magic I had sensed in the torn ones near the doors, and I realized with a start that they didn’t because the seal had already been broken. More littered the floor and, upon closer inspection, I saw their remnants, drained of their magic, served as kindling for the many fires that lit the room. Gyumaoh’s work, then. But the army had been raised days ago—were Ukoku free this entire time, why would he be sitting in wait here, useless to his own cause? It wouldn’t be for my sake. 

Stepping around an abaton pillar that was fluted deeply and decked with several cornices along the way, resting places for webbing and scorch marks, I peered at the shadow beyond the gate, Ukoku’s lair and prison. Inside was only darkness; I could make out nothing, not even a pair of glowing eyes, and the only breath I heard was the hiss and crackle of dying kindling and the occasional shift of the building on the mountain. Even my own was silenced, and it occurred to me that I had forgotten to release it. Doing so with a huff, my brows furrowed and my face tensed. _This is where they take me unawares._

I should have called out, but was reluctant to provoke it, if indeed it was here at all. A strong shudder racked the entire building, rumbling up from the floor, and I fell back against the pillar, hands digging into the sides of it, waiting for the quake to subside. It was a ripple effect, for the volcano gave no groan and did not spike in temperature; the blast had come from a distance. I thought, Gyumaoh, and felt pangs of sympathy for Kougaiji, there to hold off his own father’s advance while I did I don’t know what. 

“Ukoku.” His name was leaden on my tongue, foreign, but saying it aloud made him real too, a person, and mortal. There was no verbal answer, but very suddenly I had the feeling that I was being observed; I couldn’t pinpoint the gaze, but felt the eyes all over me, prying, searing my skin like the heat of the room. In a flare of anger, I slammed my open palm hard against the wall and _breathed_ , releasing a furious bolt of electricity through the stone that sparked rapidly and flew in wicked spasms about the entire room. It lit the space in a heartbeat, snapping sconces and ancient chandeliers, sending them flying into floors and walls with a racketing crash where they smoldered. 

_“Ukoku!”_

There was a low laugh from beyond the wall of the portcullis, steady and thoroughly amused, but very relaxed. The shadows hid him, but I saw the faint glow of a cloak, the vague outline of a body sitting with its back to the wall, kneels pulled up casually, arms folded across them. 

“The Sanzo has come. You are quite early, did you know that?” He drawled, not moving to rise up or bring his face to the light just yet. I walked within a half foot of the gate and placed my hands on it, able to feel the potential to make it a weapon. Hell, the entire room was my weapon—everything in it was made of abaton, and any surface I touched would carry my energy where I aimed it with the accuracy of a bullet. Suddenly I felt much better defended than I had moments ago, comforted by the knowledge. I tried to plan. How much would it take to kill him? I was hesitant to lunge, being unable to see him clearly. What might he have waiting for me?

“I think I came just in time,” I said levelly. 

“Mn.” His voice, dark and wet, reminded me of the inside of a cave. I imagined he might have fangs and sun-parched, moony skin like most creatures that live beneath the mud. “Tell me, are you here at your own behest?”

“As a matter of fact I am,” I bandied back, hoping my voice didn’t shake the way it seemed to in my ears. “I was just so damned curious to see what’s holding you, when even I can tell all of those seals are broken.”

There was a dry chuckle. “Force of habit, I suppose. One doesn’t like to leave familiar spaces, and over the millennia, this has become quite…homey. I’m sure you can relate; aren’t there aspects of your own home you miss, Lost Boy?”

I almost answered in anger, but a distant rumble from the outside prevented me, and I touched the pillar again for balance, shaking my head. “Stop stalling and hiding in the shadows.” I swallowed a little and hoped he couldn’t hear it over my goading. 

“Are you afraid of me?”

That provoked only another gentle chuckle, but I heard movement, the scuffle of feet and the sliding of cloth as he rose. “I rather thought to stay back here, since you most certainly will be afraid of _me_.”

“I can handle it,” I bit out, not at all sure of that, but then it was too late, he’d taken my bait and wary invitation, and a low shriek filled the room, deafening. I realized it was the mechanics of the gate, unused in centuries, now rolling and churning together, flecking great clots of rust and ashy clumps to the floor as the spiked edges were torn from the stone floor to leave gaping holes beneath. They looked like rotting gums. 

The cavernous room only enhanced and echoed the sound, and I resisted the strong urge to clamp my hands down across either ear; the rattling grate of metal on metal on stone was tearing through my jaw and the place behind my eyes, but it stopped long before reaching the top, just high enough for a man to pass beneath unhindered. 

The pulsing in my hands grew stronger, scalding my palms and burning the tips of my fingers so that the nails began to fray and blacken. I readied my aim the way I might have loaded a gun, and wouldn’t have minded having one of those, either, if for nothing more than its service as a psychological weapon. 

I was panicked more than a bit, my mind flailing through a flood of new information; the seals had been broken for some time now. That was how he’d raised the army, and why Gyumaoh was still alive, his energies not having been exhausted by a dual feat. Why then, lie in wait here—for me? It seemed foolish; if he wanted the upper hand, sitting in a veritable magnet against a priest who controlled lighting was the most imbecilic thing I could imagine. So he wanted me alone then, desperately so, and out of reach of the army. Why then? He could not wield the sutra—Kougaiji had been firm on that; only a Sanzo priest could bring it to life. Did he plan to bury us both alive in this maze of a dungeon? Did he hope Kougaiji would come for me?

I couldn’t think, and then the gates had clanged, stopped, and shadows were pulling off of him like a cloak torn away, and his laugh was awfully changed, horribly familiar. I saw fair hair instead of the dark I had imagined, and robes as white as mine as he strode free, the last of the seals fluttering down like broken wings. 

“Samuel,” he said with falsely sympathetic eyes, the lines around his mouth and eyes were known to me by heart. He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

My stomach lurched up rapidly and tangled in my throat before tearing its way back down, dislocating everything in its path and sending a wrenching pain through every limb. I was dizzy, and could hardly stand or recall whether I had just drawn breath or exhaled it. My eyes strained, but it was not dark any longer, and it was all I could do to remain standing while he stood there, smiling at me. 

It was my father. 

 

TBC (woah with the cliffhangers yeah?)


	14. Chapter 14

My father was as magnificent on the field as he had always been, only this time his men were behind me, and a horde of black-toothed demons were following his command. We split off our forces, his new ones tangling with the old, and I heard the screech of metal on metal as their swords and shields and claws came together in one wrenching cacophony that made my ears ring like a cannon shot. Gyumaoh and I were armies of our own, and circled one another. By his gaze, I saw that he was intent on killing me, but there too, I could see that he knew me. 

“What have you done!” I accused him, my soldier’s shout echoing across the space between us; I saw flames at his fingertips and felt the hum of his great strength gathering with irritation. “How could you sacrifice your own people!”

His answer came at me in a burst of heat that sent me skittering over the stone, the copper of my helmet denting on either side and barely guarding my skull as I finally thudded to a standstill against a high bank of peat. Standing, knowing this was no more than the equivalent of a swipe, I flung back at him a harsh wave, watching energy crackle and splice the air as he deflected most of it, hardly singed when I ran at him and repeated my accusation.

“You betrayed us!” Our blades clashed, a formality, an outlet for personal anger, but nothing that would advance either of our causes. I was torn between freeing him of the spell he wasn’t under and slitting his throat, soaking up his power in a cascade of blood. “Your people! Your _son_!” My voice, hoarse from the long fight already, cracked at the word, and he laughed.

“Insolent whelp.” His strong hand, almost the size of my face, batted me backward and into the ground. I felt the rock tremble and crack in a little crater around me, sending shockwaves of pain through my back that were temporarily immobilizing. 

“You would do this for power?” I whispered, and he heard it. “Haven’t you enough of it?”

“Enough of it?” He echoed with a rumble of laughter, “ _Enough_?” He acted as though he didn’t know the word. “Enough, when I rely on a man from another world to defend me, when expansion is stopped at every turn by fear of a dark little man in a cell?”

I sat up and coughed blood, feeling something loose that shouldn’t be in my chest. “A man you freed!” I shouted. “Whose armies you unleashed at the expense of thousands!”

“A man whose armies will become mine,” Gyumaoh barked back at me, his voice heavy with annoyance. “You’ve lived your life in a bell jar, Kougaiji,” he accused me, “You think your parlor tricks with flame are true power, your helpless mortal soldiers of flesh and bone?”

I almost sobbed, “ _I defended you_! To all of them— _I defended you_ to our Council! Your own men believed you turned, but I knew you to be enchanted!” I flung myself at him, sword cast aside and useless now, but a bolt of energy lit my hand. It smote his wrist, but once more he threw me off. I badly wished for a tree or brush to stop my fall, but landed hard in another self-made crater instead, the breath broken in my chest and sifting out of me through open wounds. I thought I heard the hiss.

“Enchanted I am not—but wiser. Stop this foolishness—no more need to die if you would call off your hounds.”

“So that you might ravage your own country!” I rasped, and he shook his great head. His beard, now lined with grey, rippled in the movement.

“So that I might have another.” He rumbled, picking me up with ease by my cloak and tossing me about, the flames in my hands extinguished with the force of the movement. 

I was in disbelief at the inanity of the plan—what value, to him? “You would have Melorodon?” It was a wasteland, Ukoku’s prison and home. Did he think he could unseat him?

He barked a laugh, “Sparrow Prince,” he mocked, “I would have it, and Glaukia too.”

“Glaukia!” I barely gasped the word out before he drove a spear of light into me that set my skin on fire; the tips of my hair were singing despite my own resilience to heat, and I shrieked at the force of it, wrenching myself free with more effort than I had expended in sum thus far. He looked pleased, maybe a little impressed, but still too entertained to perceive me as a real threat.

I knew I was not. 

“Ukoku,” he said, “is a means, not an end. Not that he knows that.”

 

“You cannot kill him,” I rasped, “no one but a Sanzo--”

“Oh,” he said in amusement, “I think I can. I’m done relying on their otherworldly magic, waiting in desperation at their will and bidding. But you will have to go first.” My father had never been a foolish man, but this plan was madness. I clung stupidly to the hope that it was still brought about by magic, that he had somehow lost his memories, forgotten me. What new cruelty was this, what man, indeed?

We fought. Or he fought, and I withstood the blows, tearing through layers of ground each time and gaining little from my attempted advances. He was not called the ox-king for nothing; his power was in his strength, and the bolts that came from him where not as hot as my flames, but far more potent. As he strode forward, nudging me away from the castle, away from my men whom his own were decimating, he spoke. 

“You are watchful of that priest.” His boot caught my chest, pinning me, and if he said anything more, it was lost to pain when another spar of light came crashing down, sapping me and elevating my conscious from the rest of me. I thought I could see my body twitching below for a moment, and wasn’t entirely there. Everything passed as though through a funnel, and then I was sucked down into it and back, trapped. His heel broke through skin and bone and burned. I screamed. 

“You are watchful of him,” Gyumaoh repeated, kicking me hard and then plucking me up with interest, his eyes searching mine. I wondered if he found anything he recognized there. I didn’t.

He glanced down then, pointedly, at the great tear in my cloak, my naked chest, and noticed the absence of the pendant. My father had known about this. But this impersonator in king’s clothes—how was it he had come to know? 

“I saw him die, you know. I was on the field when they tore him up.” Gyumaoh hissed at me, drawing a line of fire across my throat where the gold had hung with the tip of his blade. 

“Did you wait a day in mourning to remove it, or did it hamper you in the Sanzo’s bed?”

A scream tore through me, flaying my throat with its force, and the sudden blast of life from my palms became a wall of flame that shot up between us, pushing him back, away, scorching his hands and searing his skin until it flamed. It pulsed harder with the memory of each accusing word, and the effort it took to release it flowed from me like breath. This time, it was my father who shouted, surprised, and my fury sparked life in me again, closing my wounds and regenerating a crippled core. I heard the shattered blade he had used crunch beneath my feet as I approached where he had come to stand, staring at me.

I wanted to rearm myself before my wrath could subside, and then thought distantly that there was little chance of its doing that. Rage was gushing up from some hidden place inside, some pocket of thought I had tamped down and denied, willfully forgotten and disregarded when the rest of the world saw it in cruel clarity. I raised my blade again and watched it light with my energy, bringing it clashing down against his, and this time it was Gyumaoh’s strong arm that yielded, falling back as I swung mindlessly, scraping the cloth of his hauberk and then tearing a thin layer of flesh, watching a curtain of blood seep out and into the velvet. 

He was stronger than this by far, and yet I was able to deflect the brunt of his next attack, sending it off and to the side, crackling into the hard ground. He had wasted his energy on Ukoku’s seals and his wicked stone army. If they came to me now, I would annihilate them. 

“You are wicked,” I breathed at him. “And will never have true power.”

“True power!” Gyumaoh shouted at me beneath another attack, swinging back with one of his own that knocked the wind from me yet again, cracking ribs that could not rebuild themselves at a fast enough rate, hampering my movement as we clashed again and again, a whirlwind of energy laced in flame. I could smell the sweat pouring off of him, the ferric sting of blood, and lashed out with a dagger, feeling it catch flesh and tear cleanly through. 

“What would you know of it!” He bellowed above the brewing storm of our efforts, his own blade coming down again and again over mine, snapping it in two. Then it crashed into the center of my skull and dark spots blurred my vision while the copper vibrated, valiantly withstanding the massive blow. He flung it off, and I saw the glowing metal become dull, green-slicked malachite again, tumbling brokenly across the barren landscape where it hid in the shadows. 

That was how Samuel found it, I thought dizzily. 

Overhead, the moon was still full, a blooming pearl without a cloud in sight, and then the outline of my father’s meaty sword arm came to obscure it, cutting a dark shadow right through the center, hewing it in twain. He brought it down hard over my head, the hilt first, and split my scalp with a wave of hot blood that drenched the left side of my face and blackened my sight. I thought I was talking in colors and smelling sounds for a moment, sickeningly giddy and coughing while I inhaled. He was laughing at me, a cruel noise that smelled like sulfur and fetid, open wounds. 

“What would you know of it?” he said again, breathless with malicious mirth, drawing the blade in a gradual V down my chest once again. “You with a soft heart, who would never make a king. I leave you a mere few months, and you lead your own men to their deaths.”

I was a stone beneath him, stunned by his blows and unable even to twitch so much as a finger. Nothing in my body responded, but I could feel very clearly the congealing blood that sucked my cheek into the ground, dripping wetly into my eye to snare the lash against flesh. How crumpled I was, how helpless, and he was not entirely wrong. What sort of king indeed, I wondered.   
Once again I found myself floating overhead, released from the pain but oddly discomfited by the lack of a body and accompanying sensation. I could hear my father’s voice from there, his accusations and defense as he stared into my gaze.   
Could he tell I wasn’t there, or was he speaking up into the tunnel that connected us? 

And then there _was_ sensation, a warm hand at my shoulder, clasping down hard, and a breath at my ear without a voice, though I felt the words. _Go back._

I went back with a rocketing agony that ran the length of me four times over, circulating like blood and waking me, bringing me back to myself just as I saw the silvery blade come crashing down for my face, my throat, the entire line of my body. I plunged my arm upward, the flame white-hot at the tips of my fingers and blue everywhere else, streaking down Gyumaoh’s torso and then tearing it open. His scream rent the air, and I saw the clothing and flesh burn in the blink of an eye, giving way to a voluminous chest cavity full of blackening, snapping rips and shriveling organs as he withered before me. The life drained out of him and poured into me even as the blood itself evaporated. 

I felt it strongly, his dying, the breath of our family’s power filling me up, revitalizing numbed and broken nerves, fleshing out wounded chinks of limbs and bone. He walked with this all of his life, and he would search for more? I rose, shoveling his remains from me and skirting them, not bold enough yet to tread through the mix. He would have Melorodon then, anyplace his ashes might land. And Glaukia too, I supposed, wondering if his spirit would delight in the fog. 

A glance at the sky showed me the moon had risen far overhead, and its radiance bared the sight of a failing battle to me in the distance. I charged at it, arriving in a blur of light and sound, and when I did, no one hailed me. They had not the energy, watching a new wave of Ukoku’s men come at them, rising up, immortal. With more resources at my disposal, I felled them all in one easy motion, watching them snap and break apart and feeling not drained in the least, but invigorated. The stone popped and convulsed, and they exploded and collapsed and burst into flame in odd variations, but each of them died, some inches from Companions’ swords, others with their own blades raised at the throats of my men. 

The rising noise I mistook for a cheer was actually a low groaning, a keening of thanks and relief and utter, soulful exhaustion. I searched the crowd for a familiar face, pulling Xaja out from among them, his arm badly wounded and hanging limp at his side; he was using his other hand to support it. I spoke to him, but used my battle voice, letting it carry out over those who remained, those pitiful few, a fraction of their original strength. “Gyumaoh is dead.” There was no cry, only knowing, somber relief. “Lead them into a retreat, Xaja. Stop only for the wounded that may be recovered. Evacuate from the castle, and await me by the shores.”

Xaja saluted me with his good arm, causing the other to hang awkwardly and pain him, though he bellowed back my orders in a broken voice, making jerking motions as I saluted my men, seeking out the few remaining who wore the mark of the sparrow. And then, turning on my heels, I dashed into the next wave of rising orcs alone, seeing fields of them before the castle, flooding the lowlands and surrounding it like a moat without a bridge. My hands came up, and I began to douse them in flames, purging the land in the hope of regrowth as the fortress loomed gradually nearer. 

 

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow getting very close to the end. I am guessing there will only be 2 more chapters after this, 3 at the very most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we've switched POVs yet again.

My tongue had turned to lead in my mouth, and the man in my father’s body blinked, bemused, at my expression.

“I had thought you would be happier to see me,” my father’s voice said smoothly, “Samuel.”

“What,” I rasped, “have you done?” Could he assume another’s shape? Was this a magician’s trick from this devil of Melorodon? “Take off his form!” I demanded, slamming my fist into the pillar and watching electricity skitter like spiders along the walls, fizzling out before they reached him, just in case. He only laughed.

“It is no form—haven’t you wondered where he’s been, why he didn’t return to you?” Ukoku stepped forward, twisting my father’s face up in a cruel parody of its usual placid expression, grinning toothily, a rictus smile. 

“You couldn’t have,” I breathed, looking again around me at this hell, this dungeon. Three years? But I remembered that Gyumaoh had raised his armies, and yet he was free. There was no way he might have done both, not in so short a time. Kougaiji had said so himself. And then I remembered something else. 

_Only a Sanzo’s power can match his._ Only a Sanzo’s power can _house_ his. Even in Gyumaoh’s body, Kougaiji said, he would have very little time; it was why he’d wanted the son, too, a fresh energy source to cling to and inhabit that would endure longer, but eventually it would crumble under the pressure too. And he’d sent Gyumaoh out to battle once he was released. 

“Your father is a very patient prisoner,” Ukoku said, striding forth, the long blond braid of his hair swinging behind as my fists clenched and unclenched, and then trembled. I heard my jaw crack and remembered to breath, a quick snatch of air. 

“He waited just long enough. And it is pleasant, inside of him. There isn’t that sense of urgency one gets with weaker men—I’d thought for a time I might have to settle for your Sparrow Prince, but lo and behold his mad father came through after all. I see he’s inherited—that will prove a nuisance, later.” He cracked his knuckles, my father’s knuckles, and strode right up to me, not a hand span away, to touch my face, my hair.

“He tried to kill himself once, when he’d figured it out, did you know that?” His voice lilted mirthfully, and I smacked his arms away hard, regretting it at once. That was still my father’s body. 

“Lucky for me, Gyumaoh revived him in time. Mortals are so fragile.” This time his hands came down onto the scroll, and I backed away, more wary of its unprotected state now than before. 

“You’re wondering,” he said, “whether or not I can wield it, in this body. I believe I can.” He laughed. “I am a Sanzo, after all, aren’t I?” and then his robes turned to inky black, melting into the shadows of the room as the lit flames shuddered and dampened down.

“Let’s play a game, Samuel. You know what my plans are already, I presume. Your lover must have told you.” His eyebrows went up, and he pushed his hand at the center of my chest, right over the medallion. “So you may choose whom you wish to buy time for: him, or your father. Think carefully now,” he whispered, and in a rush he was on me, flinging me aside. His powers reminded me of the lightning but seemed to pass through me much more slowly, like water building up beneath my skin and threatening to burst, putting a blinding pressure on the place behind my eyes. He struck me with something encasing his fist that wasn’t physical, a sort of fourth state of matter, some kind of magic that sent me sprawling. I fell back, and I heard him laughing. 

“Not much of a warrior, are you?” 

Spitting blood from where it had gathered under my tongue, I stood shakily, wondering how to do this. How _could_ I do this? He had my father’s body! “I’m a linguist,” I reminded him, straightening with care and circling him while he stepped aside, watching me. “I study patterns, tendencies, and the occasional outliers. It’s not so different from fighting.”

His sharp eyes were still on me, darkened past the natural color of my father’s, and I felt him weighing my words, watching my feet and the swing of my hands. He was right, I was no fighter, but I had a sutra. He struck me again, and it ran from him through my father’s body as from a sieve, lancing over the surface of my skin before piercing it and trailing the path of my veins in nanoseconds, numbing most of my extremities. I lashed out blindly with electricity, and it zapped between the walls, writhing, and I heard my father’s cry when Ukoku staggered back, his expression bland everywhere but his gaze, which was impressed.

“And I’m guessing,” I continued as my lips regained their feeling, “since you waited for me here, while you could have been out marauding through the countryside, that you want something particular from me.”

“Clever enough,” he allowed, his stance spread, but easy. “You’re quite right. Gyumaoh did little more than free me, and I had no wish to inhabit _him_. I raised my own armies, Samuel.” He held his arms out, hands upward in an ironic gesture of innocence. “I don’t have to slay them myself to feed on their spilled blood.”

“Why am I here, Ukoku? Why am I not fighting you on your field?”

“Do you have children, Samuel Grey?”

I grit my teeth, shaking my head a little bit. “That isn’t an answer.”

“I rather think it is.” 

It came to me when he hit me, a curving punch that went straight into my stomach and upward, snapping a rib, then two, and then a bolt of his energy sent me flying backward and into an unbreakable wall. The back of my head smacked so hard against it that my vision flickered and even sensory intake stalled for those precious few seconds. No children. That made me the last Sanzo, if I died. There would be no one left to defeat him. But could he kill me without the sutra? Could a Sanzo kill another Sanzo? 

I realized it didn’t matter either way because _I_ couldn’t kill _him_. Not while he wore my father’s body. I was going to lose. 

Stumbling up, I got in a swing, and then two, but they were half-hearted, always deterred at the last second by a familiar face, an expression. Wherever my father was in there, if anything remained at all, he couldn’t pull any of Ukoku’s punches. The man struck hard and laid me out once again on the floor, kicking me over and slamming his heel down onto my wrist when I moved to rise again. It snapped like tinder, and I howled, my voice echoing from the vaulted ceilings and drowning out the hushed grate of his laughter. 

“Is he in there still!” I demanded, looking up at him from a distance that seemed like miles. It made Ukoku sneer.

“Oh, very much so. It’s a pity you can’t hear him, all the wretched threats he’s making at me for the sake of his dear son.”   
His boot came into contact with my head, sending it snapping back so that I could feel the fresh bloom of a burgundy bruise on my cheek, dribbling blood where the skin had broken. 

“Aren’t you _embarrassed_ Sanzo priest?” He leered, striking me down again just as I rose up, lashing his hand across my face with the speed of a whip, breaking the skin with the force of the blow. I skittered across the stone like a pebble, unable to stop myself before toppling into one of the flame-filled urns, knocking its contest out in a hot spill. I stood, spitting again, the ferric tang streaking my throat. 

“I am,” I panted roughly, “ _humiliated_.” And I was. Kougaiji had done so much, and here I trembled, bound to lose because the enemy had procured a shield through which the sutra couldn’t break. He struck me again, and I let him, my blows weak-willed and then non-existent, unable. I saw the ground up close for an instant, every little grain and streak on the stone, an ashy film and the glittering ebony of the abaton beneath it, like glass trapped under sand. And then I was moving, sliding along the hot floor, and I saw Ukoku overhead was dragging me to the yawning mouth of the portcullis. And I understood. 

He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to _imprison_ me. For vengeance, for safe-keeping, for later use, I didn’t know, but I was going to be thrown into the same hole where he had dwelled for millennia. I and the sutra. Lashing out with a cry of protest, I scrambled up and away from the gate. Undeterred, he shook his head and clicked his tongue in disapproval. 

“Unwise.” Like a long white arm, his magic reached out to twine about me, squirming and then tightening in a serpent’s grip, coiling and pushing the air from my lungs, the skin from my body. “You will suffer,” he breathed, “ _everything_ I suffered those thousands of years—until the end of your miserable life. And no one,” he said gleefully, his voice manic, distorting my father’s face beyond recognition, “will come to rescue you. You are the last of them, until me, and trust that I shall guard you as well as your ancestors ever guarded me. That sutra--” 

The spell tightened about me, ropes of his power grinding down into my flesh and clean through it, affecting muscle, bone, and nerve, twisting everything together into one tight ball of agony that blinded me and made the sutra twitch against my shoulders with unreleased energy. I could be out of his hold in a heartbeat, but lashing out at him would be too much—my father—

Colorful splotches patterned the surface of my eyes, and I thought distantly I could hear drumbeats, the staccato tap-tap that signaled the beginning of the Walpapi snake dance. I saw my father in his faded jeans and t-shirt and smelled the burning of the fire, though what he was sketching out in his ledger was the open mouth of a dig-site, dark and filled with charmed objects. We were in Oregon, and he was speaking to me, but over the sound of screaming—who was screaming, all the way out here?—I couldn’t make out his words. There was a snake in the grass at his feet, and he was talking calmly as though it weren’t there, about to wind up his foot.

I read his lips as they moved, and felt what he said over the deafening roar of a shout, _“I want you to do what you feel is right, and it’s very important, when you do, that you do not think of me.”_

_“How could I not think of you? What do you mean?”_

_“Samuel.”_ He said softly, _“Let go.”_

_“I won’t!”_

The snake at his feet became feathered, sprouting downy brown wings and a fat neck; a sparrow flew up and at me, and its chirping sounded like a voice, and then a shout. _Let go!_

“Samuel, let go!” Kougaiji’s voice thundered at me, and I took a great breath, oxygen flooding my body and restoring my damaged senses. Ukoku’s hand was at my throat, tearing at the sutra, and I did as was asked of me. Releasing my hold on the building energy, it snapped like a wire pulled taut, flying down through the air and slicing through Ukoku, making his body jerk inelegantly back and forth, wrenched and yanked through empty space as if by marionette strings. 

I fell to the ground from where he’d held me up, smacking my knees hard on the floor and feeling the jarring grind all the way through to my teeth. Kougaiji’s face was all angles in the flickering shadows, and I sensed a difference there, a greater power just beneath his skin. Gyumaoh. 

“Sanzo!” Kougaiji shouted, flinging forth a wall of flame that Ukoku penetrated easily; he paid the king no heed, flinging him aside and into the jagged edge of the portcullis so that the entire mechanism rattled gratingly from the force, threatening to come crashing down. Me he assessed coldly, and then our hands locked in a different sort of battle altogether, leaving Kougaji behind as a whirl of ice and wind and crackling lightning enveloped us, sounding like a clashing battle, though I could see no other fighters. 

I struck him, and thought I could see a little of the façade fading, the true color of his eyes, the wicked slant of his nose and scarred jaw. Something heavy broke overhead and the floor shuddered beneath us, cracking in places as the volcano made its sounds of protest. Whatever snapped, it slid slowly free from the rooftop, grating like a glacier and screeching with the sound of warping iron before it tipped and flew through the floors. It was a spire-studded steeple, like a deadly icicle, and soon the castle was coming down in pieces around us.

He flung me into the wall, and I felt two pillars crash aside. Gripping them hard, I jolted both cylinders with kilovolts to match a lightning storm and felt my energy flood the floor and shoot up Ukoku’s legs. It singed the edges of his robes and hair and enveloped him in a gory light display, long ropes of electric gold enveloping him in a tornado of charged particles. The scrape of his feet on the stone below, jerking about, was drowned out by his screams. 

The castle roared as it began to topple down around us, the earth quaking and heaving and rearing up beneath our feet. I could see little past the whirlwind we produced, but heard thunder cracking heavy overhead and felt a torrent of ashy rainfall bleed down over us, hissing as it hit the fire below and plunged the space into darkness. Wave after wave of his energy rocked against mine, and for a long time I was lost to it, knowing only enough to push back, back, and keep him off of me. 

He reached out to me, grasping at my throat with my father’s hands and then with what felt like claws, nails digging in harshly and dragging me down, down and back to the floor from whatever height we had reached, whatever plane we’d been fighting on. The ground quivered with the echo of our fall, and I tumbled him over, my hands at his neck this time, pushing against his airway and flooding his body with the breath of electricity. I could sense it coursing through his insides and searing them away. It felt like an exorcism. Goddamn you, get out! 

When he managed to pitch me backward, one hand scrabbling uselessly at the sutra that had stuck itself to me like a second layer of flesh, I found myself staring upward and recognized where we were with a jolt. We were in the cell—his cell, and I could see the portcullis’ jagged teeth raised six feet overhead, just above my neck like a picket guillotine. He landed on me with a curse, and then we were up, exchanging blows with the force of maces, only the pulse of our energy lighting the dark room. I didn’t need to know how to fight; the sutra guided me, and nothing came from mental calculation or skill, everything poured forward second nature.

I tore the priest’s robes from his chest and slammed my fist into it; the small, palm-sized gold sparrow was at the center, pushing into his skin and letting loose a flood of lightning. It would force him free, break him out of the stolen shell.

I could hardly hold it to him as he shook with the energy, convulsing against the wall with a screech that wound its way up to the remaining spirals and the open sky above where rain poured down, intensifying the effect. And then there was light—flames—about us, and Kougaiji’s voice in my ear, speaking over the maddening rush of blood.

“You cannot save him this way! You cannot save him!” He roared. “You must imprison the demon!” At first my hand wouldn’t budge, locked by the pull of power bleeding out of me. I wouldn’t let him take my father with him. To his hell. But I couldn’t destroy him either; my hand was restrained by conscience, and I thought to purify him, chase Ukoku from his body. But Kougaiji had told me before, with thought to Gyumaoh, that a Sanzo did not have the power to do this. The notion hardly registered at the time. My arms shook, and it was the king who tore away at my grasp, screaming his own pain at the effort as the pulse threw him back unintentionally. 

“Kougaiji!”

“Lock him away!” The sound was torn from his throat as he rushed Ukoku, and I saw a dagger of his slide home, unexpected, doing what I could not. It slid neatly along my father’s side, and the expression of shock there, of having been caught off guard by a swift motion, by Kougaiji’s inherited power and the last, ringing effects of my own, remained frozen as he collapsed. And then Ukoku slid out—just like that, like a shade leaving its body, only it wasn’t _his_ body. Kougaiji flung himself forward, igniting his clothes and very flesh, transforming into a veritable weapon to hurl himself at Ukoku’s half-there form, blazing against him and pinning him to the wall. The mage was screaming at the effort, the life bleeding out of him as a black mass of oily air writhed beneath his hold, slippery as a snake and wrenching against his every move. 

_Lock him away._

He had been right about the words, too. I still don’t know what I said, but when I lifted my arms, they came out in a chant, fluid and less word than song, slipping free and pouring over me with the calming effect of water. I was surrounded by silence, deaf to the cacophony around me, and felt a warm light easing the open wounds of my body closed again, mending broken bone and torn muscle, knitting up the tears in my scalp and jaw and regenerating burned and blackened flesh on my hands and feet. It murmured against me, _You’re safe_ , and the power it exuded was so much more than the storm that had commanded my fight. I tilted my face upward, into the light, lost to it.

A guttural shout broke the quiet, and the gate’s mechanism squealed in response as the portcullis flew downward and into the sockets that had borne it for thousands of years. I saw Kougaiji leap for it.

_Get out!_

The entrance screamed as its casings broke, sending it hurtling down in a shower of sparking flint and rust that reeked of calcification and shattered iron. The king tumbled through, rolling with his arms tucked in close for speed, and I saw the very edge of the portcullis catch on a strand of hair, tearing the crimson free as he leaped up, one hand at his side. 

The wards, in response to my chant, were flung forth against the cage like a flock of doves, their white tails latching on with a hiss that coursed through the length of the criss-crossed bars, clinging fiercely and surrounding it in a hot gold glow. When Ukoku stepped near to it, it shot him back against the wall like a bullet, smashing him into the ashy outline Kougaiji had made of him.

He howled in outrage, and I nearly collapsed from the effort, staggering across the length of the room to where my father lay crumpled, bleeding out quickly. I pulled his head up, searching his gaze, and when his eyes opened, I knew them.

“Dad?”

“Samuel.” He smiled and quivered with a cough; no blood came to his lips, and I pulled his cloak aside to see where Kougaiji had slid the blade in. His side, yes—but not between his ribs, that would have killed him, and quickly. It had skimmed the side to strike two or three ribs in the process and lodge firmly in his sternum. The jolt alone would have shocked Ukoku away from his body, in hasty search of another, but the sudden flame had kept him at bay for those few precious seconds it took me to entrap him again. But the wound was still serious, and my father was weak, bleeding rapidly. I staunched it as best I could, not knowing what to say or how to say everything I needed. His hand brushed mine, and he looked sad and proud, disappointed and relieved. Had he wanted me to kill him? There wasn’t time to think of it. 

“We need to get you back. I’ll--” I moved to scoop him up, and my knees gave out in a rush of breath. The spell had taken more out of me than I realized, and I found I could hardly control my limbs. If I needed the lightning again, I would be at a loss.

“It is…” my father murmured, “the way of it. After.” Of course; he would know, he’d done it too. 

“Samuel.” Kougaiji stood behind me. “We need to leave.”

“I have to--”

“I will,” he interjected, picking the crumpled figure up easily with Gyumaoh’s strength; I thought I saw him wince, but then the floor shook beneath us and drew my gaze upward. 

“A flying dragon would be really handy right now.”

“No luck,” Kougaiji breathed raggedly, and before I could ask, he nudged my shoulder and we flew to the open doors and through the eerie, darkened ballroom with its now-flaming depiction of Eden curling at the edges and melting into the wall. It really did look like hell. 

My father, tucked to the king’s chest, groaned occasionally at the movement, but I’d bound his wound tightly with the tie of my robes and thought it would hold long enough. It had to. A panicked thought raced through me, ahead of all the others and then colliding with them with one great tearing wrench of my gut, suppressed only by sheer force of will. There was a battlefield surgeon on the shore, wasn’t there? After three years of searching, three years of imprisonment, he couldn’t die during his own rescue—in front of us?

We lost our footing after I tore open the door to the stairwell, and I warned Kougaiji belatedly of the broken glass I’d left in my wake, hearing him curse when it sank through the worn soles of his shoes. I felt it too, but we paid it little heed as his flames licked the remaining sconces and fallen wicks, dimly lighting our path. Footing was difficult to find regardless of the jagged shards once the ground began to quiver in earnest, a steady grating motion that erupted into convulsions at uneven intervals.

The castle was actually sinking, sliding beneath the ground and into the hot pits of the volcano. Our battle had broken its comfortable toe-hold on the mountain’s edge. Perhaps now it was snagged on a sort of fire-shelf, a temporary hold. I wondered what it looked like from the outside, and if it could be seen from the camp at all. And if there was a camp left. I didn’t have the breath to inquire, and Kougaiji didn’t have it to answer as we ran, the stairs crumbling occasionally underfoot from the consistent quaking at the fort’s root. 

I watched the bare patches of Kougaiji’s heels as his feet lifted elegantly, peering through torn soles with each step, occasionally skidding a few inches on glass. His breath came short and staccato, like a man in pain, but his pace never wavered, and he hardly jostled his burden more than movement required. My own sounds were less reassuring, a wheezing breath that made me wish I’d never touched a cigarette and trembling, jerky movements that came either of severe exhaustion or residual effects of my electric shock. Each step, I thought I would collapse and that it would be the end of me, if not a mortal end, at least one from shame. Kougaiji couldn’t carry both of us through this.

I pushed on, counting the steps to set a pace, but losing track after eight or nine each time. Eventually I thought, It can’t possibly be this far. I didn’t remember it being so far, coming down, and feared that Ukoku wasn’t truly locked away, that this was some bit of magic that lingered, an unending stairwell. We could tire and bleed out on it, never seeing any more light than Kougaiji’s own hands could conjure at the wicks. 

And then the shadows broke; I heard a groan from ahead of me as the doorway came into view, lit violet-gold with burgeoning daylight along the horizon, the twilight hours. It seemed a sacred sight, that arched snippet of light rising up to meet us as we hurtled out through the entry and away from the base of the prison. It was still shaking; the entire mountain was shaking, and we were winding our way down the sides, stumbling over rocks and broken remnants of an army. Just as I thought, My God, how far off are they?, the ground began to thunder in earnest. _If it erupts now, we’re done for._

But that thundering grew nearer and then quieted, and I looked up to see two dark horses slung with a travois; Xaja rode on one and on the other, a heavy bandage curving about his skull and obscuring his right eye, the red-haired leader of the Companions, Dokugakuji’s brother. 

“Gojyo.” Kougaiji smiled, his eyes dim, and he pitched forward with my father in his arms, placing him on the worn carrier and shoving me aside with him to mount behind Xaja. “Go.”

“Sire!” Xaja protested, about to dismount, “Are you--”

“Only scratches,” he panted, jerking his hand. “Go.”

“Sire you--”

“ _Now_ ,” he belted the word, and it was as though he’d struck the horses’ flanks with reeds; they both took off at an ungainly pace; I nearly flew from my precarious position behind the general, and I saw the sling on Gojyo’s own horse bump a rock, but we were moving at a faster pace, and I had just enough time to turn and see Kougaiji begin his long trek after us. Xaja was calling for a dragon, and Gojyo was shouting something about how they were all being used to transport the wounded, the majority of the ships having been burned. I think I fell asleep or passed out with my arm slung about Xaja’s barrel torso, cheek thumping against his gory armor. He must have kept me from sliding off, because I remember very little of the journey, and when I woke I was not on the ground or buried under molten lava. Rather, I was on my back in linen, and the world was swaying below as the sky passed by in pastel streaks overhead. It was dizzyingly pleasant.

“Sanzo?” Goku’s face appeared over mine, freckled with the sun and burned slightly by it. The corners of his mouth were pinched tight, white, and when my bed swayed gently beneath me I realized we were on a ship. “Sanzo ‘rya okay?”

I opened my mouth, and the air tasted loud. My senses were boggled again, probably from the absorption of so much lightning. They ought to put me in Guinness, for that. 

“Sanzo, we’re on th’ship.” He was smiling now, widely, “We’re goin’ home.”

“Ukoku,” I breathed, and wished I hadn’t. His name tasted foul on my tongue, and when I spoke it, I could smell the harsh sulfates of the cell and the fetid odor of old blood dampened by fresh, the chips of ancient iron sizzling in the fires. 

“He’s locked away, Sanzo,” Goku whispered, and soon I heard the murmur of other voices and the boy’s face contorted angrily. 

“Give ‘im some air!” He snapped, flapping his hands outward in a shooing motion. “He’s locked away,” brown eyes gleamed reassuringly, and I felt his hand on my arm, smoothing down rising hackles. It was bare—my robes had been drawn off, or torn up? 

“Sealed?” I croaked, wanting to be sure.

“Oh yes, very sealed.” Goku nodded with his promise, and he began to explain what had happened just as I drifted out again. There was so much more I had to ask, but sleep pulled me down with rough hands, and I was drowning in linen and silence. 

 

TBC...


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! There will be an epilogue, but this is really the last actual, full-length chapter.

I woke again with the sense that more than a few hours had passed; it was early evening to judge by the light, and once again I was lying comfortably, though no swaying motion nudged the pillows. Overhead there was a fringe and a paisley-like pattern on blue and gold. The guest room, my bed in Erythros. I sat up, and my head thundered its protest, shooting bolts of pain down my neck and arms, though they fizzled out as my eyes leveled and adjusted to the new angle. The silhouette of my form in the sheets and lingering stiffness of muscle made me think I’d been lying there quite some time. 

It was with great hesitancy that I put my feet to the carpeted floor, and just as I relaxed them, easing the whole of my weight down and fighting gravity, the door flew open and Goku came bolting in, one strong arm slipping about my waist, a hand to the small of my back.

“Sanzo! Y’shouldn’t be walkin’ around already! It’s only been a day—the priests all say you’re energy’s awful drained and you needta sleep and eat lots.” The latter prospect had him very excited, and I noted the laden tray waiting outside the room with a flip of my stomach. I wasn’t hungry. 

“Ukoku?” I asked again, just wanting to hear it, having only a fuzzy memory of his earlier declaration.

“Sealed away, Sanzo,” he promised, nudging me back into a sitting position. I saw that I was no longer in my monk’s robes, but a bantam of fine silk, a blue bordering on violet. Refusing to lie down, I met him halfway and drew my feet up instead. The knowledge that my father was gone had so settled with me that I was taken aback by the fleeting memory of his face, his presence in the castle. Had it all been Ukoku’s illusion? 

But already Goku was prattling on, arranging the tray and pulling off chased silver lids to let the thick scent of birds’ eggs, roasted soda bread, and a very rich porridge seep out.

“The entire castle fell back into it—sent up a wave of lava that we could see even from the ships! I was helpin’ carry the wounded back, and I saw th’whole thing. The sparks were still goin’ when we left Melorodon on the horizon, too. The last men were brought back this mornin’, and they say the volcano hasn’t stopped gurglin’ since. I saw it, though. We could all see it crash down.” He swallowed hard. “I had no way of knowin’ if you were in it when it did—that enormous building all just…broke. Fell in. It looked like Lady Lirin’s dollhouse, but black.”

I nodded, absorbing this solemnly and letting him push plates into my hands cautiously, watching for any sparks. I was too worn for that, and only static popped between us. I realized I was afraid to ask what I really needed to know.

“And the sound it made! Oh, Sanzo—it was like a ghost, all the shrieking metal as the fire ate it up…and we all saw your storm cloud too, when you fought. It was enormous! And all the lightning—that must’ve been what upended the fort after all; it kept rockin’ back and forth and falling t’pieces. But I guess you musta seen that, bein’ inside.” He frowned, his frantic gesticulations slowing. “Sanzo?”

“My father?” I inquired softly, and he smiled again.

“Well he’s doin’ better than _you_ are—already ate lunch, though the physician won’t let him have anythin’ but gruel. And he was less picky--”

I was up again, sweeping past him and almost right off my own feet as I glided down the hall. 

“S—Sanzo!” Goku protested, and from the room I heard the clatter of dishes and the scratch of his shoes on carpet as he turned on his heel. “Wait! You can’t be up and about yet!”

“Where is he?”

“Down th’hall,” he gestured despite his warning, and I opened the wrong door first, finding an empty guest suite, its bright burgundy bedding untouched. It was the color of dried blood and made my stomach heave, glad I hadn’t choked down anything on the trays just yet. 

The next knob gave way to a glowing space of yellow and green, all the bedding embroidered with tiny red flowers and subtle, whirling olive designs. A half-canopy overhung it; its curtains had been drawn aside, but were just long enough to block out the harsh light of the west if closed. Atop the mammoth square of patterned cloth and the small mountain of bolster pillows, I saw my father secured away, one arm resting on canary silk, the other holding a small scroll, reading it over casually, his face impervious to analysis. I took a cautious step in.

“Dad?”

“Samuel!” He sat up, the thick braid of his hair falling from his shoulder, and I moved to him first, tripping over the edge of the bed and then kneeling on it, taking up his hand for fear of upsetting his wounds. I saw Goku hadn’t lied; there was an emptied bowl and silver spoon atop the washstand, and he had regained some of his color. 

Ignoring his injuries, he leaned forward to grasp me in a fierce hug, arms narrow but not fragile about me. I felt his cheek pressing against my neck and his hand in my hair, on my back. I let my head rest at his shoulder, still quite dazed, and kept my arms about him as long as he willed. This was my father. Thinner, fairer, with longer hair and the scent of sulfur still around him, but the same. 

“God I missed you,” he murmured, combing his hands back through my hair again; it snared and caught between his fingers, never as fine as his. “All this time…”

_All this time…you’ve been locked up in a dungeon, waiting for me to save you, and I wasn’t even looking in the right world._

“I searched for you!” I blurted, feeling my shoulders tense up and seeing his face crumple, knowing the pain he must have caused me, however unintentionally. “I searched for you for years—that’s how I came here, I was still looking.”

“Samuel.”

I was trying to be angry, knowing that was easier for me to control than the rising echo of panic. It wasn’t working.

“Three _years_ , Dad. You were in there, on Melorodon, for three years?”

He frowned. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it had been so long—I didn’t know anything had been, or was. When I left Erythros to go back home, no more than a month had passed.” When he saw I would listen, the story came pouring out of him.

“I came from the sea, when I arrived—is that how you came?—and King Gyumaoh said his men would take me to the exact spot where I’d sprung up. He said it was safer to travel by sea than by road, and this place bears such resemblance to Antiquity that I thought it must be so. I went with his men, but the ship didn’t stop.” He swallowed, evidently remembering his own panic.   
“There was nowhere to go, at sea, but I tried it anyways. I thought I might fall back, but it was not nighttime, and by the time the moon had come out again, they had already taken me down.”

“To the prison,” I said, feeling my tongue stick at the roof of my mouth, my stomach churn angrily. The idea of my father, hunched in a smoldering, ashy cell beneath a volcano, waiting for someone to figure it out, eventually coming to realize that no one ever would…I coughed hard, my gorge rising, and he patted my back the way he had when I was a child, a hum in his hands that vibrated soothingly down the line of my spine. 

“Yes, the prison. But because our powers only work to any great extent on the night of a full moon, he overcame me. But again, because that time came and went repeatedly, he couldn’t very well keep me awake. I would have escaped. So I slept.”

“You just…slept?” I couldn’t bear to think on that either, lying for three years underground and waiting, not knowing. I remembered my dream of him, asking him where he’d gone, and his answer. _I don’t know._

“Yes; it was like a coma-sleep, long and dreamless, occasionally picking up on outside sounds or energies. Like Endymion, I suppose.” He responded to my reddened complexion with a gentle sound. “It was not painful, or even uncomfortable. It was nothing.”

“It was three years of your life!”

“And of yours.” How had he, the true victim here, wound up comforting me? 

“How did you come here?” He asked finally, and I told him, haltingly, and then, growing comfortable with the thread of my tale, at a more efficient pace, skipping no detail. I told him about his ledger, the vague notes there, my search to find the exact spot it seemed to describe. He said he couldn’t have known it either, but had drawn it from a dream. Just as Kougaiji had suggested. 

I told him about the helmet, the lightning, and landing in the king’s fish fountain. I recounted how it had taken dragons and then some to convince me I wasn’t dreaming, and that everyone there remembered him kindly, but no one knew where he had gone or what Gyumaoh had planned. “Kougaiji thought him innocent, enchanted, right up to the end.”

I told him what had been asked of me, what I agreed to, and when Gyumaoh—no, Ukoku—raised the army, and how Kougaiji sent them off and evacuated the land. Erythros was only now beginning to see the first of returning citizens; even the staff of the palace seemed greatly thinned out. Lirin had yet to come back, insofar as I knew, and I thought I would have recognized her clattering footsteps. 

I told him in brief about Goku’s imminent execution and my lies to free him. He made hmming sounds in thought, and I knew he would speak to me more of it later, adding some fusion of subtle praise and comfort. I explained to him about the helmet, when it was found again, back-tracking a bit and stumbling over my words, remembering what had happened shortly after, Dokugakuji’s engagement and the king’s own blessing. I told him of the night before, my terror of it, knowing so many people’s lives were in my hands. I didn’t tell him how I spent it. I tried to describe the battle, remembering it in pieces, but my father told me he remembered it too; he had seen out of his own eyes, though it was Ukoku who controlled their movement. He was there the entire time as though resting in a shell, a coffin. I was ashamed that he had seen such unhinged, bestial fury from me, that he had come to harm at my hands. 

He said, “I willed to God that you would kill me, every second of it, Samuel. I wanted that monster out more than I wanted any kind of life. It is a miracle, and I’ve you and your king to thank for it, that I was granted both.” 

I shook my head, wondering if he understood it at all. I had almost killed him. He frowned, nodding—yes, Samuel, I do—and leaned back once more. He had guilt too, he said, and I couldn’t imagine what. Not an iota of it had been his doing, his error. 

“I’m sorry you spent so much time looking, Samuel. I’m sorry you had to suffer—I would have told you, if I might have reached you. I didn’t know how. There was one time—I cannot say when, because time doesn’t pass truly in sleep—that I thought I did. I dreamed we were at a dig site, unearthing--”

“Cherokee sherds,” I murmured, and he looked surprised.

“Yes!” I wished we could stream our thoughts together again, catch up on the missed years and communicate seamlessly. I wanted to let him know how hard I had tried, how I hadn’t given up, and then confess that I’d wanted to, that I’d been so tired, and this sudden wrenching of the heart at seeing him alive again, only to come so close to having to kill him myself, was too much. I tamped it down tight like powder in a rifle, my will ramrod straight, filling the barrel.

“I dreamed that too,” I revealed, “some nights before we sailed for Melorodon. You told me what to do, and not to think of you when I did it. You knew what he had planned?”

“In whatever glimpses of consciousness I experienced, I figured it out,” he allowed. “Why else would he want me, but to use me once Gyumaoh had freed him?”

“He’s dead now,” I said viciously, speaking the way some people grind the toes of their shoes into the dirt or break branches down. “Kougaiji has inherited.”

“Yes.” He sighed, lying back, and I said something about rest, which he rebutted instantly. “You’re the one the servants are saying won’t take any food. Sit here with me. Eat something. And tell me what my linguist son has spent his days on. Is there a lady, now?”

It was an old joke between us; he knew better, and I rolled my eyes so that they wouldn’t fill. 

“Has there ever been?”

We passed a half hour in bland conversation, talking about Virginia, about my apartment and about Nick some, then about the digs, all but the last one, and about the assertive Civil War historian named Shannon. My father knew her—and liked her—go figure. A servant who was not Goku came in with a tray and offered it forth, that unappetizing gruel and, for me, a small plate of the hard biscuits which were more like cookies that Goku practically lived on. I accepted one, then two more, when my father glared, and she carried the silver out with a little bow, yelping when our hands brushed across the polished surface and sent a shock through her hand. 

“It seems you’re still well-charged, Sanzo,” she tittered, and might have said more—her eyes were wide and overwhelmed—but seeing the both of us in conversation, she soon disappeared out the door, her low heels clacking against the tile. 

She had been in awe of us, two priests where her nation had never seen but one in its history, two who just locked their most powerful enemy away and sent him plummeting downward into the closest thing to hell Melorodon had to offer. Both had risked their lives, but one had done so twice, and given three years of it besides. I felt very unworthy of that deference and approbation. 

You must think it selfish for me to mourn it, after having been so lucky to find him alive. But I did—I scrabbled at it in my mind, desperately wanting those years back. If nothing more, I would want them to have been passed in a happier place, and I would want to know. 

“I’m glad to see you got away from those Melrose Road apartments; I never did like to see you living there,” he lectured, and I turned to him, letting the little tray the maid had left with me clatter to the floor, muffled by the carpet. He stopped, mid-syllable, and stared at me.

“I almost lost you again,” I whispered. And then, pushing down too hard this time, something cracked inside of me and I slumped forward, letting him catch me while I sobbed, a supplicant, against his robes. 

 

\----

 

When I woke, it was dark out, and my face felt stiff with salt. I was on my side, and my father had dozed on the opposite end of the long bed, his narrow back to me, braid twined like a sleeping snake near his nape. I couldn’t think of what woke me in the silence, especially when slumber still rested so heavily at my chest, drawing me back into the still-cool covers. 

There was a rasp at the door, and it creaked open, one gold-brown eye peering in, the pupil dilated. 

“Sanzo. Samuel.” It was Goku’s voice, and I slid out into the hall with him, blinking at the light in the corridor. Sogra was at his feet and making low, pathetic whining sounds, her tail thumping at a downward angle between her legs, ears flattened. 

_Sogra. Lirin is returned?_

“Sanzo,” he said again, more urgently, and took my hand in his, guiding me down the hall. 

“Where are we going?”

“To th’king, Sanzo.”

“Kougaiji?” I blinked. I’d hardly thought of him since we left the incline of the volcano, letting him catch up with his newly acquired abilities. “Is he all patched up then, by now?”

Goku frowned tightly, shaking his head. “No, Sanzo.”

My chest tightened again; it had been doing that so often lately I though eventually all the bones in it would become too stiff to function and simply shatter into pieces along the cushions of my organs, shredding them to red bits. It felt like that might be happening now. 

“How not?”

“He was wounded,” Goku said, and when we approached his bedchamber—I had never been inside his quarters, but I had been passed the grand doors many times—there was a cluster of people outside it. I spotted the snake-charmer physician who had tended me upon my arrival and a cluster of maids with familiar faces, one of whom had brought my father the gruel. There were soldiers wearing the scarlet sparrow of the Companion detachment and several others in a variety of hues, all dressed impeccably as if they were waiting for inspection. Farther off, sitting with her knees pulled together under a violet gown, hair drawn up in a messy bun, I saw Yaone. It was to her that Sogra scampered once Goku’s movement stopped, and people parted for us, inclining their heads with a solemn respect that superseded bowing. 

“Goku,” I murmured again, hearing the main doors click shut behind us. We were in a grand sitting room, and I had the impression that it was usually immaculate, untouched, but the sudden flood of guests and well-wishers had given it a temporary lived-in look, creases in the cushions and here and there a moved, de-centered object that had been fondled or scrutinized. A handkerchief with lace bordering had been left on the low wood of an ebony table. 

“Tell me what’s happened. Why wasn’t I informed?”

“You needed t’heal, Sanzo. And your father.” 

He nudged open the latticed doors of a narrow corridor where neat urn-chairs sat on either end of a marble floor, and behind that another set of doors, these to the inner chambers and lined in nacred enamel shaped into elegant trees, all dotted with birds and spring blossoms. My hand brushed the fine work delicately, and from inside I could hear hushed murmurs, the grating of a male tenor and the soft hitching of a soprano. _Lirin._

“How bad is he?”

“Quite bad,” Goku said stiffly, and I saw he was trying to maintain his own composure, not having had the recent luxury of crumpling that I had. Suddenly it didn’t feel like enough. 

“The princess is in there now. But he’ll see you—he asked for you, if you were recovered enough.” I knew we should have taken a seat, but neither of us could stay still long enough for that to be useful. 

“When did it happen? I was with him the entire time. He was only winded leaving the castle. I saw him run.”

“Ukoku got him,” Goku replied. “When he was holding him in, he tried to tear right through him to get out, to possess him.”

I thought of what he’d done to my father and shuddered, hard, knocking a small bud vase from the delicate end table so that it fell with a little clatter. Goku scooped it up before I could bend. 

“He held him off, but he took a bad wound. It’s not been healing—Ukoku’s magic is dark, and it’s a miracle it didn’t tear him up on contact, the physicians say.”

“I would have seen—that’s impossible. I saw him—he carried my father up all those stairs, and then out!”

Goku shook his head, looking distantly impressed, awed, but mostly sad. “He was all torn up, and told us where he got it.   
Nothing else could lay out that kinda damage.”

I tried to visualize it again, drawing up fragments of memory and desperately seeking clues. He’d gripped his side—I’d thought it a minor wound. I had some of my own, after all. There had been debris falling all around us, and anything might have hit him. But it was Ukoku after all, and he’d still managed to haul my father up the cliff—had he been holding his own side closed that entire time? I had barely been conscious, too drained to function outside of base, instinctual movement. And Kougaiji had saved us both. 

“Yes.” I heard a distinct rustle and stepped back from the doors as Lirin exited. She wore one of the gowns I’d seen her in before, in passing, and I saw on her finger the red stone of the signet ring, tightened about the band to fit. Her bearing was utterly transformed, and when she saw me, instead of flinging her arms about my waist and barreling me over, she nodded, taking my hands, and I saw her bite back a cry.

“Thank you, Sanzo. Samuel.” There was a very small trace of her youth there, when she smiled at me, but Kougaiji must have spoken to her. Already she had begun to take on his burden. 

Goku led her out, leaving me to enter on my own, and I let the doors close after me, hearing them rock on their hinges a moment before sliding shut. The apartment was grandly appointed and done in deep gold and vibrant vermillion. Everything shimmered in the dusty glow of oil lamps, all lidded because of the late hour and casting a candle’s glow through their translucent shades. I saw a chandelier overhead, unlit, that glittered dully with bullion, and on either side of the bed were wide windows with heavy velvet curtains drawn. The flooring, decked in ancient carpets that were soft to the touch, matched the few wall hangings that decorated wooden wainscoting and a Tuscan colored paint matted on in patches of oranges, golds, and terra cotta browns. I thought it was odd I’d never been in here before, but he had always found me first.

In the center of the room, Kougaiji lay on the right side of the bed, propped up by a small army of corded tuft pillows and firm bolsters. By the look of him, that was all that was holding him up. Beneath his bronzed skin he was very fair, and I saw the wide swath of ivory bandages about his side, already bleeding through, though I knew by the physician’s presence outside that they had been changed recently.

“Samuel.” He pushed himself up, and I asked him not to, going to stand by the bed. He made a face at me that said plainly, _So formal, when you have shared more than my bed?_

I sat instead, looking at the loose hair pillowed about his face, the heavy earrings that rested on his shoulders at this angle, tinkling when he moved. His chest was bare, littered with the scars my mouth had traced three days ago—had it only been three days?—and the edges of a darker, more daunting wound that oozed black blood but smelled clean, ferric. It covered the base of his ribs to his flanks, and tore right through the left half of his stomach. They didn’t have the technology for it, and I didn’t think my world would either; the wound was steeped in magic, and as Kougaiji had said before, the sutra didn’t purify.

“I didn’t know you were hurt. I would have come at once.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to—you would never have lain still.” He smiled at me, his teeth very white in the dim light of the room. “How is your father?”

“Living and well, thanks to you.”

“No deed of mine. You sealed him up,” Kougaiji reminded me.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” I began haltingly, humiliated by my ignorance, “that you were injured. You carried my father up. You held Ukoku back and then dived under the gates—I thought it was a scratch, if that. That your powers…”

He shook his head a little, one hand going reflexively to the injury, brushing his fingertips along the thick padding. “It was worse than I’d realized; the adrenaline blinded me to some of it. His magic is very powerful, and for all that this will do to me, you endured much more of it.”

I found it hard to believe I wasn’t a shriveled mess of remains in that volcano too, remembering what I had taken, absorbed, from him. A single blast had thrown Kougaiji, and the sutra had held dozens, maybe more. It had been enough to cause the entire castle to collapse into the fiery tank below. Would the abaton dissolve in such heat, I wondered?

I remembered Kougaiji on the mountainside moments before losing consciousness, riding away and watching him become smaller and smaller as he began his own stumbling trek downward. They had only sent two generals, not expecting my father’s presence. Perhaps only two were brave enough to come. But if I had exchanged my place for Kougaiji’s…

Perhaps the guilt was shining on my face, because the king made a disgusted noise and moved to swat at me impatiently. “Stop that. You’ve no notion of how his magic works. It’s not a _wound_ that might be treated. It is and will always be as potent as when he struck. It is true, I might have survived it or avoided it if I had not been so weakened, but his armies had come endlessly, and I would not leave my men to face them. It was a choice.” He spoke firmly, and I clenched my jaw hard. His bravery and valor far outweighed mine, and yet it was him who was here dying, having to wage battles even here just to keep breathing.

“You have done us all—all of Erythros,” he said carefully, his voice rasping a bit as it evened out and softened, “the greatest service, an immeasurable kindness. I can never repay you for that debt. There is nothing that would be enough.”

 _Your life, then, isn’t enough?_ I saw he was indeed giving it up, though one could hardly say giving. Kougaiji fought for each breath, and would take from it what he could scratch out until his body betrayed him and perished. 

“But still. I thank you for it, Sanzo. Samuel.” His hand slid up to squeeze mine in a sort of shake, and his grip was still painfully firm. When he let go, it was only for a moment before he scooped my wrist up again, this time bringing my knuckles to his mouth in a dry, benevolent kiss. I squeezed back, and leaned to catch his mouth with mine.

He tasted of the same thick wine we had drunk the night before Dokugakuji’s death and some spicy potion they must have given him against the pain, or to draw it out, slowing Ukoku’s magic. I could feel it in him, though the sutra held little more than residual energy at this phase of the moon. It was black and deep, clawing and setting up roots in him, siphoning out his life.   
It would have given me pleasure to know that that monster was gone from this world—from any world—but I knew he was alive. _But he is gone, from a place whence he cannot return._

Tasting his kiss, the fire on his tongue, I brushed hair from where it had fallen across his face and looked at his chest, bare and faintly crisscrossed with scars above the white bandages. He smiled at me, noticing the same thing, and flicked his hand. “Ah yes. I meant that for you. It’s in my cloak—would you?”

I went to the crumpled pile of velvet draped over the back of a chair, feeling for pockets and then for the cold weight of the necklace, drawing it out. It was blackened, but that could be polished away. Streaking my thumb over the curve of the edge, I saw a gleam emerge beneath the soot. It had ferried my energy into Ukoku’s chest, not absorbed it.

“It served you well, I think,” Kougaiji said as I handed it back, refusing, though he looked on. “You must take it back with you.”

Was I allowed to transport things from another world to mine? The first Sanzo had brought the helmet, after all. I said I would, but left it to rest, for now, at his throat where it belonged, and he allowed it.

“Anything you like, truly,” Kougaiji said with a glance about the room.

I wanted to say, Can I take you? But he wasn’t meant to travel to my world, and there was no one there who could save him, either. He went on. 

“It is tradition to impart guest-gifts, and I must admit I don’t know the proper bequest for someone who veritably saved the world.”

I snorted in amusement and embarrassment. “You say it as though I did it alone.”

“No,” Kougaiji agreed. “You didn’t do it alone. But the difference is this: without us, you still might have purged Melorodon of its evil, but without you, we would have perished.”

“I could never have done it without you.” He knew it, too. I didn’t have the strength to do what he did, to kill my own father, giving up my happiness for everyone else’s. Once again, that burden had fallen to him. 

Kougaiji sighed with a half shrug, running the cord of the gold pendant over his palm without removing it from mine. 

“How did you get back?” I asked, remembering his crumpled form on the mountainside, the black magic tearing through his insides like acid.

“I walked a ways. It became difficult after a time, but when the mountain began to move, I slid with it. Halfway down,” he smiled then, “Porphyra.” He explained that Hakkai had returned from the south, likely only moments after delivering his sad message to Yaone, and sent every dragon in the stables to Melorodon to aid in transporting the wounded, and then the rest. 

“The ships would take a day to sail; you remember.” The dragons would have taken on the most critical conditions then, while the others lingered on shore uneasily, watching the horizon for billowing sails. I remembered that he had ordered all but the last ship burned for fear that, if the men were overrun, orcs would have an easy time gliding across the seas into Erythrian harbors. He would not give them their victory.

“We came over quickly.” I remembered vague snatches of scenery from the early morning, the wispy clouds of the sky and the rolling blankets beneath me, a distant sound of water.

“On the wounded ship; naturally you were given priority.”

“I wasn’t really wounded.”

“You were quite drained, Samuel. You didn’t see yourself.” Kougaiji frowned. “Sealing him away anew is not the same feat as simply repairing fraying talismans. No one has done that since the first Sanzo.” Here the steady sound of his voice became cluttered with coughs, and I saw his hand go to his chest reflexively before falling back to the side. The lines of his face stood out whitely, as though the bones beneath were trying to push through as he tamped down on the acidic chew of magic working in him. It was crippling his own. 

He sighed quietly, lying back, finally still, and his eyes sought out mine. He smiled. “Are you hurting?”

“No.” It was only exhaustion, the feeling of a hollow body swaying on two feet; when had I stood up again?

“Sit again,” Kougaiji requested, and I did, feeling the mattress, as soft as my own, give way. Leaning into his fortress of pillows, I felt him relax, his arm resting against mine, and it was a mark of great trust that he didn’t sit up to match my height, leaving his throat and everything else bare, exposed. He felt his own end coming, and I wanted to thank him before it did, but that thank-you felt too much like a goodbye, and stuck in my throat.

“You saved my father’s life.” _At the cost of your own._

“Yes. And he has already made his most eloquent thanks,” the king said to me, and I wondered when my father had managed to get in here—while I still recovered? “He is a very noble man, like his son.”

“You speak of thanks--”

“Mn.” He looked up at me, lashes dark lines over his irises. “You can go back together now, back to your home-inside-a-home.”

“Yes. But what you did for me, for us--”

He shook his head a little; maybe it felt like a goodbye to him too, I thought, and his arm stayed mine, squeezing to hold back my words. After a long time, he finally spoke. “Tell me of what you’ll do, when you go back.”

I settled against the pillows, feeling them give a little, supporting my weight, which wasn’t much I thought, at this time. Kougaiji’s warm arm stayed pressed alongside me as I spoke. 

“I think, now, my father will resume his work; I can’t imagine an early retirement, or any retirement, for that matter. I’ll probably join him. It never hurts, you know, to have a linguist on board…”

 

 

Samuel’s voice lulled me into a state of near-sleep that eased the gnawing pain in my side and made it comfortable to lie still for the first time in two days. He had a strong narrative tone, his voice dipping appropriately with emphasis, but all the while remaining no more than a murmur with very subtle variations. I could feel it run through me like a vibration, but I think that was the fatigue and the length of his arm pressed to mine that led our pulses in matching rhythms. 

He had been so adamant about thanking me—and after all he had done! There was indeed no guest-gift worthy, but I thought perhaps he might accept his father as such a one. I had nothing nearly so valuable to give. I would grant them their years back, those three that my father had cruelly stolen from them, if it were within my power. Instead I was reduced to instructing Lirin—oh her brave countenance!—to make their travel home a comfortable one, and give them whatever she thought they might require. 

The sound of Samuel’s speech was a great solace amid my thoughts; I latched onto the rise and fall of his tone, feeling it draw me upward like a current, hardly needing the sense of the words to take comfort in them. We were quite alone, and would not be disturbed, and I was calm. Everyone had already shuffled past, my generals to give their reports and make their not-goodbyes, physicians to plead their case when I ordered them out, to take care of those who had need and use of them.   
They could not heal me, and I wouldn’t have them wringing their hands and pacing the room while men in the barracks writhed. 

“I’ve already figured out some of your alphabet,” Samuel was saying. “Listening to Hakkai read out Gojyo’s letters and catching the sounds that apply to certain symbols…”

Had he really? That was marvelous, as our system was unnecessarily complex, or so it seemed to me. It had never been my forte, and although I think I had been a quick enough child, reading had come hard to me; so many exceptions to the rules of the language’s construction tried my patience. Why make them if one didn’t plan to stick with them?

“It’s fascinating,” he went on, “wonderfully complex, and the whorls look like something the Sumerians used, in my world, a thing called cuneiform, but the logistics of it are more like Linear B…”

I smiled at the terms—he was speaking like a scholar, and though even the most basic references to his world were lost on me, I could always tell when they lapsed into themes of higher learning. Samuel’s mouth would turn up and his eyes would light with interest, voice carrying just a little bit stronger. There were scholars here, I wanted to say, and won’t you stay, live among them? Think of what they might learn from you. You could master our written language in mere months, and teach us some of your many tongues. He was a priest, he’d saved our world, and he might do…whatever he liked. 

As the night wore on, the oil lamps becoming dimmer, Samuel’s voice low and dusky and comforting, he spoke of home. I thought the reminiscences were less tinged with regret this time, that they might even be hopeful. He wasn’t going back alone, after all. 

“Our house—his house—was all paid off, we owned it, so there will be maintenance to catch up on, but I’ve overseen it, and really it’s only the yard that will need work.”

The mention of a yard brought to mind the gardens, and in my state of near sleep I was seeing twining images of the heavy-hanging honeysuckles just beyond the windows, trellises crowded with roses, and the few rare, finicky sunflowers twisting their heads about to follow the sun. He said they grew fields of them there, and I could imagine them like faithful worshippers or well-trained soldiers, the straight lines of them, sharp leaves and bright petals, looking upward in unison until they tumbled under the weight of the seeds at the center. They would draw the sparrows. 

I don’t know when I closed my eyes, but they were only at rest; I was attentive to his words, and he knew this by the occasion twitch of my mouth or muffled laughter at a comment. At some point, though, his voice began to fade in and out, sounding drowsy and muddled. He had hardly recovered, I reminded myself, feeling guilty for having him sit with me into the small hours of the morning, speaking into shadows. I think I said, “get some sleep, Samuel,” before my own weariness overwhelmed me and I thought to take my own advice. 

Suddenly the guttering flames were too bright; their glare pained my eyes. I thought that I could still see that glow through my lids, as though they were nothing more than feeble, crinkled paper. I felt the bedding more intensely than I had before, silky smooth and emanating warmth from the both of us, cocooning me at every angle and buoying me upward, easing the pressure from my limbs. I was very weary just then, and soon even breathing was an effort. The pull of my air into my lungs, the strength it took to compress them and force it out again, was tedious. I let that task rest for a while, too, and the bed was like a hammock, holding me up, while Samuel’s voice made it sway back and forth with the lilting motion of a ship at sea. 

He said something then that broke the rhythm, my name, I think, but I couldn’t quite hear it. 

_The oscillation had become a quick rise and fall, a bucking sensation underfoot, and as a spray of misty water, warm to the touch, wetted my face, I reached out to grasp the prow of a ship. It was no longer night, but a blindingly bright day. The sun fell in shafts onto the ivory fog that clouded the shores of Glaukia; I knew this route well, and had just traveled it, but instead of skirting the rocky inlets, following the current to Melorodon, the ship turned westward, moving closer to the isle._

_I remembered it vividly as a grey, haze-clogged mass of rock, lined with jagged points that rose like teeth from the shallows to gouge out the hulls of wayward ships. The one beneath me creaked and garbled the way any vessel would, but passed with ease about the rocks, floating on the glassy surface of the water._

_That no one was at the sail did not, at that time, strike me as odd, and when we came ashore, the gangplank rose overhead instead of falling down, to meet the sheer cliff face. I strode up and over it with ease and found that the surface of Glaukia was not stone, as we had always suspected, but rich grass, slick with dew. Few men, they say, had ever passed very far in, and fewer still had returned from it, but my old trepidation was dissolving as curtains of mist fell closed behind me, obscuring the sight of the ship and sea, the crashing waves and deadly granite spires below. It didn’t feel wet, but warm and silky smooth, not unlike linen, and cloaked me as the velvet and suede of my clothing began to feel more like roughly spun wool. I found with a thought, I could discard it._

_My march through the brume might have been a long one, but it was difficult to judge time without sight of the sun or sky, and even with it, when I emerged to see a dazzling orb overhead, the ability fell away from me like something not needed. The grass bent cool against my bare feet and the air was settled, temperate. The hot sun made the breeze balmy, and I could smell clover and violet and the cloying perfume of honeysuckle from the untamed arbors that framed the clearing. All I could think was how mad it was, that we had once thought Glaukia some barren wasteland, hung with stoles of fog and no more fecund than stone. It was a paradise._

_Stepping up to a brook, I bent to peer at my reflection, seeing a familiar face blink back, but without the harsh lines that I had grown familiar with over the past year. Glancing down, indeed, my wrappings were gone, and the darkness of flesh where Ukoku’s hand had penetrated my side had regenerated, tight and whole. I felt a strength I hadn’t known even after my inheritance, and while the pulse of flame was still at my fingertips, it, like my need to judge the day and time, was passing away.  
I touched the mirrored surface, watching ripples dance out as orange streaks shot away from the reach of my hand, glossy fins trailing behind. The sweep of the creek cleared the mark of my touch easily, what a wonder this place was, and how dizzy I had become walking through it, the greater force of my logic becoming enmeshed in contentment and quiet. A voice behind me said, “Kougaiji,” and the last of uncertainty sloughed off, a weight from my chest. I heard something heavy, a buckle or brooch maybe, hit the ground, and then it was nothing but the mist enshrouding me, and the smooth skin of his arms. _

 

 

 

Kougaiji’s funeral was well-attended, so well, in fact, that it had to be held outside of the capital and in the countryside. The center of it was a towering pyre built up almost two stories in height in order that everyone should see it when it caught fire. There were tall grasses and wildflowers all around, blooming in sporadic clumps despite the late season and unusually warm weather. This was their harvest time, someone had said in passing, and yet the earth offered up the bounty of spring in flora. 

I wore my traditional robes, the sutra still at my shoulders and about my neck, where it had remained ever since I’d draped it there. I was given a place up front, and the offer was made that I might cast in the first torch. The custom was a very old one, something my own world had done, once, but I refused it, my hand recoiling instinctively. I didn’t think I could. The duty passed to Lirin, and she seemed unfazed by it, pitching the flames forward with a very stern face, though when they cracked the rafters overhead and licked at the base of the fine ebony chest that held her brother, I saw her turn her face against Yaone’s chest with a sob. Sogra echoed it at her feet in a howl.

My father, limping though he was, came to stand for the entire thing, inhaling mounds of incense and absorbing the mourning shouts as though he were quite used to it, his face a solemn mask. He wore ivory robes of his own, though they were not a Sanzo’s, and everyone knew who he was. His hair had been washed and plaited neatly; after his three year incarceration, he hadn’t thought to trim it back. Perhaps he’d grown used to it; in this world, it looked regal. Occasionally he would flick his gaze at me or touch my shoulder, squeezing in comfort as if he _knew_. Maybe he did. 

No animals were sacrificed—that was not their custom, though they did feast in his honor. Treasure was thrown into the mouth of the fire: goblets and caskets and ropes of precious gems. For the dead or for the gods that bore him into the next world, I didn’t know, but before they had closed off his sarcophagus, I’d made my own gift to him. Gently taking the gold chain from his neck, my fingers itching with guilt, though I swear he sighed when it slid free, I strung instead the ochre belt of my robes like a thin scarf about his shoulders. When I had squeezed his hands, lain at his sides rather than across his chest, I felt that they were still warm, and said a silent prayer, not knowing in whose direction I ought to send it, but trusting it to find him. 

Eventually the pyre crashed down, the flames licking high into the sky throughout the day and well into the evening. To my surprise, the crowd didn’t really thin out, and very few left before sunset. They turned to speak to one another, to mill about in rich robes of mourning, and they drank and offered libations to the traveling spirit, toasts to the queen and her regents, all things Kougaiji would have approved of. 

By the steady dark of night, roaring orange and gold had dwindled to prisms of red flecked in white, and the Companions all stood in a line; it would be Gojyo’s duty to gather the ashes, and Lirin’s to house them in an urn and put them where she would. I thought they might inter them, making use of both burial customs as the Greeks once did. Burning was so final, so cathartic, that it allowed those of us who remained to loose some of our anguish to the wind with the ash, but a burial plot gave people something to return to, a comfort for those whose grief would linger.

I saw Goku, who had been absent from my side for some time, bent near to the edge of the debris and sacrifice, mouth moving in a quiet prayer of his own. I nudged my way through the crowd, which parted here and there respectfully, and continued to toss glances back over my shoulder at my father, afraid if I looked away for too long he might disappear again.

When I was behind him, one hand pushed gently on his shoulder as he rose up, and he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, looking at me dolefully. “’M Sorry, Sanzo,” he murmured, and I recalled that he had seen us kiss that last morning in the castle, and must have known too. 

“Do your people believe in a Heaven?” I asked as we began to walk back, seeking out my father who must be weary beyond standing. 

“What’s a heaven?”

I sighed; probably not. “It’s a happy place where good people go when they die. An Elysium, Valhalla. But you don’t know these things, do you?”

“Oh, a happy place? I don’t know about that—maybe. I hope so,” he added earnestly, blinking his eyes to clear them up. “We always figured the dead go to Glaukia, since no one else lives there.”

I had heard this said several times, but that granite wasteland looked less like a heaven than the Mesopotamians’ House of Clay. “It doesn’t seem like a very happy place there.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Goku shrugged, “I ain’t never been, myself, but never heard of a ghost complainin’ of it, either.”

I began, “Ghosts aren’t--” and his expression stopped me; I thought of Kougaiji’s wry smile. “Ghosts aren’t as picky as the living, maybe,” I said instead, and he bobbed his head thoughtfully. 

“Guess not—what with their not havin’ a body and all. But if Kougaiji comes t’you, be sure to ask.” Goku advised me, and then we saw my father, sitting on an upturned crate that a man in deep green bearing food items had thoughtfully spared for him. He was pushing a pewter goblet into his hand and fussing worriedly like a mother, and when I approached, I recognized his dark hair and the glint of light on his eye. 

“Hakkai.”

“Sanzo.” He bowed, and I made a face so that he stopped halfway through, smiling gently. “I’m glad to see you well. And your father.”

“Thank you. And Gojyo is--?” 

“Attending the pyre,” the dragon-keeper responded smoothly, his good eye sad, a hue darker than even his clothing. Everyone’s mourning was genuine; he was a much-beloved king.

“Porphyra is in a fit, and won’t be moved. I’ve had to isolate her,” he informed me, refilling my father’s goblet before it was half-drained, and the wine seemed to make him relax, loosening the tight stitches of discomfort in his face. 

“Will she recover? They are long-lived, your dragons?”

“Longer than us.” Hakkai nodded, “and maybe. They were very close. The only one she lets near her now is the Queen.” It took me a minute to realize he meant Lirin, the girl who had slipped pastries into her pockets just a month ago to bribe the dragons into flying with me. I thought I ought to see her, too, once more before we left. When that would be was hard to judge—no one had ever explained the departure half of it to me.

“Gojyo feels it very intensely,” he said quietly to me, “as I imagine you do. We would have you, if you might, in the apartments over the stables where we dine.” 

I looked to my father, who shook his head and held up his hand; he wouldn’t vanish on me, but might take his rest, still badly drained from Ukoku’s inhabitation. I said I would be there, and Goku too, and Hakkai smiled wanly and thanked me. 

When we returned, riding horseback at a slow pace over the sloping hills, it was past midnight, and far too late for a dinner, but no one seemed to care. I saw my father off to bed, and he told me to pass time with my friends; he would be there when we returned home, but they would not. 

Crossing the garden at this late hour, most of the blossoms were closed or shrouded in shadow, but the fish fountain where I’d fallen gurgled and trickled and splashed pleasantly; I knew Kougaiji’s window was just above, set neatly into the curved wall. My hand went to my chest, brushing the pendant beneath the cloth that rested there, and I passed by and onto the grassy lea, slick with moisture from the air. 

The stables loomed in the distance, and the great domed roof materialized only gradually as I approached, distinct from the dark of the clouds. The hem of my robes dampened and turned ecru from the walk. Inside, the smell of smoke and mint and oats was mixed with the fainter scents of a kitchen and roasting flesh. Goku met me there and led me up the stairs that hugged the distant wall, curving into the ceiling and then halting abruptly at a doorway, giving off into a series of small rooms, a private dwelling.

I had never been to Hakkai’s apartments, or seen the stable spaces intended for human dwelling, but they were pleasant and rustic, touched here and there with drying spices or woven quilts. Beeswax candles were set in sconces instead of the more costly oil lamps of the palace, and they gave off a comforting, homey smell that mingled nicely with the raw timber walls and stewing vegetables on the open flame. 

It was a straight shot to the open kitchen space. A polished cypress table had been drawn to the center of the room, and Gojyo sat at the far end with a heavy tankard in hand, his face a grim line, still wearing his regimental colors and cloak. He greeted us, and Hakkai swept in from another narrow corridor, arms laden with a wicker basket of roots that he began to scrub and pare near a large bowl of water. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said gently to us both, offering up a rougher wine than what I’d had in the palace, but it did the same tricks splendidly. In half an hour I was mellowed enough to try my hand at conversation.

We spent the rest of the night and early morning this way, the four of us in a small circle about the table, hands pressing, even Goku’s, to pewter goblets, and Gojyo his tankard. Hakkai was a good cook and a good story-teller, too, and by what I guessed was four o’clock we were all comfortable enough to laugh a little at his recollections. The general had a few of his own, and said he wouldn’t spare the charming ones for the sake of propriety; Kougaiji wouldn’t have it.

He recounted one that matched up with something the king had once shared with me. While he didn’t have Hakkai’s neatness of form and ability to draw out a plotline, when it came to comic asides, he was a master in his own right and very articulate in his drink. 

“I was a little younger at the time, but I know I remember correctly,” he argued with Hakkai gently when they disagreed on the name of the county whence the courtier had came. “In any case, the man wanted to expand his militia or reserves or something, and you know you have to get royal approval for that, shifting the orders around as it does. So he comes in with this big gold-wrapped chest—that thing must have been worth more than me empty, but he had it filled, too, with gifts. I was a page in the court, which basically means I got to gawk at everything so long as I kept out from underfoot; my brother was already in the ranks, and I couldn’t afford to get him in trouble.” He paused there to drain the dregs, and the dragon-keeper obligingly refilled the container for him.

“Kougaiji was there, with Gyumaoh.” I winced internally at the name, and thought I saw Goku do the same. 

“The courtier made some fancy speech, the way aristocrats do, and said it was a gift for king and prince both—a real politician, there; kids always remember being included. And when he flipped open the lid, I was pretty sure I was going to see a big pile of gold or rubies or something, but it was full of linen sacks—of seeds! The king seemed pretty impressed at the time, anyways, because they were sunflower seeds, and oh,” he held out his pinkie with a roll of his eyes, “the nobles just live and die by those damned things, so expensive and especially rare because they can’t just trade them and keep them among their own, they _eat_ them.” 

From what I had gathered, sunflower seeds were the caviars of Erythros. 

“Well he got his bigger militia—or maybe he didn’t, I honestly don’t remember—and what do you know but in a week, half the chest, one of those huge sacks, is totally gone. There’s sort of an uproar—people thinking the servants took them, someone even accused me, and then Kougaiji stomped his foot and told his father he’d taken them himself, one half being his due, and some were planted out in the gardens so that they might have more. And the rest,” here he snorted in laughter, and I anticipated the story, remembering Kougaiji’s chuckle at the memory. “He poured into the bird feeders. They had sparrows rucking up that garden for a month to get after those damned things, and I suppose he ate not a few of them himself. Gyumaoh was so goddamned amused that he gave him the other half too. ‘For your birds,’ he said.” 

I smiled, and Hakkai picked up on it, and soon we were laughing, all four, a heaving sound that was as much mirth as it was exhaustion and sorrow and an unwillingness to let it turn into sobs. After one—three—too many, Goku allowed me to lean on him when the sun rose so that I could make it down the stairs without falling two stories to my death. Hakkai and Gojyo saw us off, but didn’t follow us past the threshold. I noticed the redhead’s am slip about Hakkai’s waist just before they shut the door, and momentarily envied them that comfort. 

When we passed the closed stables, Hakuryu chirped at me and lowered his head, letting me pet the soft place between his horns in a sort of daze before Goku nudged me on and forward, taking us past the grasslands and cobblestone paths of the garden, up the tricky stairs and back to my chamber. Seeing the shimmering coverlet had been pulled back, the sheets tossed as I had left them, I climbed gladly into the comfort of the space, wondering faintly if they had been changed at all since I left, since Kougaiji shared them.

Goku hovered at the door, leaning a bit against it himself now, “Remember what I told you then,” he said. “If Kougaiji comes t’visit you, don’t forget to ask. Don’t forget.”

I nodded, letting my cheek dig into the pillow and fancying that I caught the musky, scorched scent of his presence there. “I won’t forget,” I assured him, and the door clicked shut. 

 

TBC (sorta)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue here, folks. Short, 2,200 word bit.

The next day, or rather, just before its noon, I met with my father in the throne room before Lirin, who thanked us both formally, politely, and under Xaja’s hawk eyes. I thought I ought to say something to her, that her brother loved her very much, but she didn’t need me to tell her. When she approached my father it was with awe; she remembered him, but not well, and said all the right things. Advancing to me, though, she forewent custom and simply flung her arms once more about my shoulders, pressing me close in an embrace. I could smell the smoky scent around her now, too, that Kougaiji had always worn, and it tore at something in me. 

“If you ever can come back,” she whispered, pitching her voice that even Xaja couldn’t hear, “you would, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” I swore, and then later that day I removed the vestments and replaced the sutra in its strongbox under her watch. 

This time it was Lirin who lit the flames of the sconces within the treasury, her face that observed expectantly as I withdrew the sacred scripture and locked it away again with a resounding ting of metal on metal, all its jewels flashing in the light. I wore now a smooth puce jerkin and worked boots of leather. The collar was layered and halfway open, though the bandages about my wounds had mostly been removed, and the fabric was soft as wheat against my skin. My father was dressed similarly, expectantly, and neither of us was surprised when a dark storm cloud cropped up out of nowhere, ringing thunder over the dips in Erythros’ valleys and sparking with impatient lightning. 

I had wondered whether I would know when to go back, or how, if something was required of me. My father said he recalled only being drawn back to the sea, but that longing was not there now. When I asked him again, seeing the roiling black overhead creep steadily forward, flaring with light, I answered myself instead, the knowledge innate, making me wonder how I hadn’t realized it before.

They saw us off near the fish fountain where my father and I stood, not in the water, but near to it, my hand resting on one of the dancing Piscean sculptures. Their party was a cluster of Companions, Gojyo at the fore, Hakkai waiting near the doorway with a tired smile. The queen and Xaja stood to the right side while Goku, Lirin’s personal attendant and, if I was still as perceptive as I flattered myself to be, special friend, waited at her left. Thunder bellowed and the belly of the cloud heaved dauntingly straight above. Just as I wondered what would happen, were there words for this, maybe?, I cast my gaze north-west, in the direction of Glaukia, and clutched hard at the worn trinket beneath my shirt. He hadn’t liked me to say it, but it was now or not at all, and I don’t think anyone heard me anyways. _Goodbye._

The lightning struck the center post of the fountain, splitting it into charred halves and forcing the water out over us both in a cold gush. Electricity traveled with ease through it and seared my insides again, melting the copper buttons of the jerkin and the charm beneath to my flesh, rocketing down the same place it had entered almost six weeks ago and burying the tips of its snapping roots far into my core. It made the ground shudder underfoot, heaving me backward, and then there was the wet, drowning sensation of lungs that wouldn’t open, limbs that wouldn’t lift. Something cracked and popped and flesh singed, and finally there was a blessed, cooling silence, a balm on my scathed flesh that smelled strongly of mud. 

When I sat up, I was not alone, and my father brought a hand to his head and groaned, making my ears ring with the sound of it. “We can’t keep doing this,” he grumbled, standing with caution and then helping me to do the same. We were walled in, surrounded by sludge and tangled roots and a messily dug hole rife with the almost-dark of dusk. How long had we been lying there? Where was “there?”

Then I saw the ladder in the corner, the pile of flashlights and shovels and a lost leather glove clotted in earth. The dig site.  
“Samuel? Where is this?”

I began to climb the ladder, faster as the rungs passed beneath me, not wanting to answer him until I knew, until I saw, and when I crested the top I did. In a wash of dying light I took in the army of tents and folding lawn chairs, sites taped off with bold yellow ribbon reading CAUTION and ATENCION. There were tall antennas to pick up on wireless and several folding tables littered with coffee mugs and notebooks and Zero bar wrappers and, good God, were those cigarettes?

“Samuel!” My father yelled, following me up on the ladder, each cautious step revealing a slight limp.   
“Home, Dad,” I answered finally, slumping down into the grass and hearing movement within one of the tents, the sharp tap-tap of boots on hard-packed earth. “I think we’re home.” 

 

\---

 

The house was technically under my name now, so much time having passed since my father’s disappearance, but the transfer was easy enough, if not a bit tedious. After staring at fine print until my eyes all but bled, _my property_ became _our house_ , and I moved back in for the next few months to help him air out the insides and resuscitate the gardens. Very little had endured, and the entire backyard was overrun, though at least the fellow I’d paid to mow the grass on a bi-weekly basis had kept up his end of the deal during my absence. 

The dig site was lost to us, but it hardly mattered, since the only worthwhile artifact in it had already been discovered. I think Shannon published a paper on her own findings there, and my father tried (unsuccessfully) to have me read it. 

I spent most of my time outdoors with him, catching him up on what he had missed and plotting the remaining details of our fiction that hadn’t already come out to the police and medics at the hospital. One more closed case for the local sheriff’s department translated into an emotional homecoming from his friends and professional associates, and neither of us had had to cook for months. 

The garden began to bloom again, gradually, though it was late in the summer for planting most flowers, and too early for chrysanthemums. I spent a lot of time running back and forth between the hardware store and garden center, and once, on a whim, snatched up a packet of sunflower seeds. My father gave me a funny look when he found them among the hand spades and fertilizer. “Where in the yard do you think we’re going to have room for these?”

“Maybe by the window,” I shrugged, and he handed them off obligingly.

It is the way of flowers, when they’re planted too late in a season, to halt their vertical growth early if they feel the weather changing and utilize their remaining time to produce seeds. I thought this would result in a dwarfed crop, if I got anything at all, but our summer was a hot one, and long, leading into a very mild winter that didn’t truly begin until late in November. As a result, the sun-shaped blossoms sprung up rapidly, their stalks thick and vibrant viridian, and black seeds clustered healthily in the centers. I’m no green thumb, so I give the sun and Miracle Grow credit for this one, having had little more to do with it than the planting and constant watching.

During all that watching, I was thinking a good bit too. To say my foray into another world was life-changing would be an understatement, but to dwell on it was a danger. I spent a lot of time that first year mulling it over, reliving it, to the point that I believed I felt something every now and again, that if I turned fast enough, I might catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, vigilant. Surely a spirit had an easier time traveling between worlds than a living body did; isn’t that what a ghost essentially was, a displaced essence, wandering among the living? 

Ruminating overmuch was like probing an open wound, so I plunged headfirst into my life, not letting loss drag me down like a net, but not exactly forgetting, either. I held onto my apartment—or rather, my apartment dwelling as a rule, instead of the physical space, which had been cleared out during my disappearance, though most of my things were recovered from well-meaning friends. After assuring myself that my father wasn’t going to disappear on me if I was gone for more than a night, I moved back out, but made it a habit to visit often, especially in the warmer months when he needed the help in the garden. 

My career progressed, and along with it a new interest in cuneiform, the topic of several commended articles and the tentative start of a small book. The scar on my shoulder faded some, but never went away and continued to raise eyebrows whenever it was bared to the air, a curious design, to be sure, and something often mistaken for a tattoo. I loved the expressions on people’s faces when I explained that no, I had been struck by lightning while working, an accident on site, but never added the all too stunning (but true!) “twice.” 

And still, telling the story, seeing the scars in the mirror or feeling the occasionally cold sting of the pendant at my chest, I would hurt. As I said at the beginning, it is an old man’s job to remember, but the young can be sucked into it, drowned by it, and lose their future to an instant of the past. This might have happened to me too, wondering always at the fringes of my thoughts, _Are you at peace now? Are you happy?_ , if it weren’t for the most resounding sense that he was answering me every time, _Yes, I am happy._

That first year back, my dreams were troubled, frightful, and the uneasiness of my circumstance, the lack of control and the knowing that I could never, ever have that back, itched at my subconscious. I hid it as best I could from my father, but if you know him, you know that’s impossible. So I bore with it, the gnawing in my stomach, the goddamned _unknowing._   
It was after a particularly fitful night that I lay awake in the early morning of mid-October, my legs tangled in the cool sheets of my childhood bed, the room I had grown up in. Slowly, I breathed.

The wooden frame of the window had been nudged open a crack to let the brisk, clean air circulate; we hadn’t quite rid the house of its closed-up smell, and candles made my father cough. When I inhaled, I could taste the coming season, spice and dried flowers and the rich, fecund earth turning itself over for sleep. It was not far past sunrise, but still I was able to listen to the sound of leaves falling outside just in time to be tidied into neat piles as the comb of the rake scraped the scalp of the ground. Duty warred with sloth, and resisting the urge to roll back over and bury my head for another two hours was becoming impossible. Just as I was showing the cheery day outside my back, I heard a shrill chirping, so close that I was convinced a bird had flown down the open chimney again. I really needed to get to fixing that flue. 

But then there was another, two and three in time, and they roused me, a little orchestra of sound that went from cacophony to harmony in the time it took me to sit up and peer outside. The sunflowers I had planted just below the window, along the flower beds and stretching forward in long, decorative rows, had already grown to their full size and rippled with silky yellow petals. People knew our house from the winding road a half mile away and uphill because of that spark of color. But now every inch of it was obscured, covered in a natty mantle of salt and pepper feathers and sharp, tiny little beaks, open in various stages of chirping and singing as they plucked the disks of the blossoms free of seeds. 

Nudging open my window, I peered out and their chirping communication intensified without the glass panes to muffle them, drowning out the early hum of locusts in the trees and the distant call of larger birds from the oak boughs overhead. I gazed on a moment, arms folded against the peeling white paint that prickled my skin, and watched the clouds scrape across an azure dome. 

_Are you happy?_

They rose then, the way birds do, all at once and in a great undulating blanket of feathers and feet, whipping outward in a curve and then up, filling the sky with russet feathers and echoing song. 

 

-Telos-


End file.
